


So the Stories Go

by im_an_idjit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, robin hood!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_an_idjit/pseuds/im_an_idjit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 12th century England, and Zachariah's tripled taxes have brought the country to its knees while King Michael is away on the Third Crusade. Add to that poverty, starvation, the outlawed Winchester brothers and Prince Castiel, and the town of Nottingham is in for a show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I totally intended to be productive this summer, but holiday homework and uni research got in the way. This was the only thing I managed to churn out ;n;
> 
> My favourite part about this fic was the research I had to do for it. For starters, I found a handy-dandy Robin Hood website for beginners and got a crash-course in the legends. Though the fic follows the the plotline of the Disney version, I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and Robin Hood: Men in Tights because why the hell not, haha! For the historical context, I read up on the Third Crusade, a little bit about King Richard and John, and checked out Nottingham and Sherwood Forest. So yeah, I had a ton of fun!
> 
> Like I said, I'm heavily basing this off of Disney's Robin Hood, but I'm well-aware how notorious Disney is for not following the originals very closely (looking at you, Hercules). So I've made a few changes here and there. That being said, there are some historical inaccuracies that I left in, since pretty much all Robin Hood versions go with it. For example, John raising taxes on the poor, when in reality he only ever did it to nobility. Loads of versions also say Richard loved England, but just to give you a realistic idea of how much of a patriot he was: Richard actually spent most of his time in France, spoke better French than his mother tongue, and said he'd sell London to the highest bidder! Isn't history great :D
> 
> This is part one of two, which will be updated tomorrow. As always, beta-ed by stelesandwands, and my sister (who finally got an AO3 account at h-hogsmeade!!)

_The quickest way home to the farmlands from town was through the grounds of Nottingham Castle. And though it wasn't exactly a_ legal _short-cut, it was the way Dean took on his walk back from Nottingham's smithy. It was more of a half-run, half-jog, really. He was anxious to get home before dinner and practice with his bow and arrow just a little more while the sun was still out._

_By the very edge of the grounds ran a brook, and that was where Dean stopped to catch his breath. Falling to his knees, he cupped his hand in the water and splashed it over his face and neck. He only had a second to enjoy how cool his skin felt when a stifled gasp sounded from somewhere behind him. Startled, Dean spun around, scanning the woodland around him with wide eyes. He spotted the intruder – a head of dark hair, hidden in the dense shrubbery. It was a boy not much younger than him, around eight or nine._

“ _Please don't tell,” Dean whispered hoarsely, his heart painfully pounding in his chest. “I-- I know it's not allowed, but it's faster to get home this way.”_

_The other boy got to his feet, tucking a thick, leather book under his arm. He eyed Dean curiously with his head tilted slightly to the side. Dean never saw eyes that shade of blue before – like a clear sky in a hot summer afternoon._

“ _It's all right. I won't say anything,” the boy said._

_Dean allowed an uncertain smile to break out on his face. “Thanks.”_

“ _Are you a peasant?” the other asked bluntly as he blinked owlishly._

_Though he was offended by the notion, Dean let it slide. The kid promised not to tattle on him, after all. “_ No. _My dad's a yeoman,” he answered._

“ _Oh, do you have your own farm, then?” The boy sounded genuinely interested at the idea, rather than mocking. “I'd like to live on a farm, sometimes. There's more to see and do on a farm than in a castle, and the people are always friendly.”_

_So he lived in a castle. That piqued Dean's interest – only the nobility could afford that kind of luxury. “What about you? Are you a noble?” he wanted to know._

_The other answered in the same tone he'd use to discuss the weather, “I'm a prince.”_

_Dean didn't buy it for a second, of course. The boy's clothes were much nicer than Dean's, sure, and he was clean and his hair was combed, but he couldn't fool him into thinking he was a real_ prince _._

“ _Nice try.” Dean snorted. “But all the princes live in London. Everyone knows that.”_

“ _My father has sent me to stay with Sir Joshua as his ward, here in Nottingham. All of my brothers did the same when they were my age, with other knights.”_

_Well, obviously, Dean knew who Sir Joshua was. He was a permanent resident at Nottingham Castle. Dad had pointed him out to Dean once or twice, when he'd happened to ride into town. Maybe the boy_ was _telling the truth._

“ _So you're a prince, then?” he asked. “What's that like?”_

_The boy shrugged, suddenly turning shy. “It's all right. There's much to learn, and I like that part, but sometimes I wish there was more time to play. But my brothers are busy with their education too, and there's rarely ever any other children at court.” He looked up at Dean. The intense blue of his eyes felt like they were piercing through his chest. “Are there any children here?”_

“ _Sure, there's lots,” Dean answered, then added apologetically, “But I don't know if you could play with them. We're not really allowed to talk to you guys.”_

“ _Oh.” He looked away dejectedly. “But...”_

_He didn't continue, but Dean could tell that something was eating at him. He prompted, “What is it?”_

“ _Well, I can't help but notice that you're here, although you're not supposed to be,” he answered sheepishly._

_Scratching the back of his neck, Dean chuckled. “Oh, yeah. I'm not all that good at following the rules, I guess.”_

_The answer seemed to give the boy a boost of confidence. As he stepped forward, he said, “Do you think that, if I don't tell anyone about it, you could come here to play with me?”_

_Dean thought about it. It could be fun to play with someone new. This boy was from the city, maybe he knew some cooler games. Maybe he liked archery too. None of Dean's friends were all that interested when he'd shown them his bow and arrow..._

_And, well, he_ did _say he wouldn't tell._

“ _Okay, sure,” he finally answered._

_The other broke out in a bright grin. “Thank you,” he murmured, looking like Dean had just promised him the moon._

“ _Don't mention it,” Dean said with a crooked smile. Then, with a step forward, he put out his hand. “I'm Dean, by the way.”_

_The boy took the offered hand and shook it. “Castiel.”_

* * *

Dean was abruptly woken from his dream by a none-too-gentle elbow jab from Sam. What followed was the blond jumping like a startled deer and almost tumbling out of the treetop he and his brother were momentarily lazing around in.

“Dude, what the _fuck,_ I could have broken my neck--”

“Dean, shut up. I think I hear a carriage coming.” Sam silenced him with a non-committal wave of his hand, too busy peering through the dense net of leaves at the road ahead. “Listen.”

Dean's annoyance with his brother dissipated at the prospect of a job. Work had been slow these past few weeks, with neither nobles nor commoners coming through Sherwood Forest. Dean knew there was a lot of people in Nottingham hanging on the end of their rope, who depended on whatever Sam and he could bring back. Which had been nothing for a while now, and that needed to change fast.

He climbed a little higher up, strained his ear and slowed his breathing. Sam was right – he could hear the unmistakable crackle of wheels against gravel. As it edged closer, Dean could make out the carriage itself through the leaves. It was a giant, golden monstrosity, pulled by four pure white stallions, and guarded by at least a dozen men. Long, winding flags fluttered in the breeze, and Dean squinted to make out the coat of arms on it. When he saw it, he nearly fell out of the tree again.

Three roaring lions on a red field. That _had_ to mean--

“Dean, no,” Sam snapped, hand already gripping Dean's shoulder. He turned to his brother with that worried, puppy expression he always wore whenever Dean was about to do something stupid (or as Dean preferred to say, _awesome_ ).

“Yes. _Definitely_ yes,” Dean insisted with a grin.

“That's the Count of Mortain's carriage!” Sam hissed.

Dean snorted as he climbed up for a better view of the convoy. “So what?”

Sam rounded on him, spluttering, “We're not robbing our current ruling monarch, Dean!”

“Zachariah's not our monarch. King Michael is,” Dean reminded him. “He's just out of the country.”

“ _Dean!”_

Dean shushed him harshly. “Shut up, will you? I think I've got a plan.”

“Oh, _great._ What is this plan?” he bit back sarcastically.

Dean said nothing, for a moment eyeing a particularly interesting wagon of the count's convoy that brought up the rear. From what he could tell, it was where all of Zachariah's personal belongings were held. “See that wagon over there...?”

They climbed down in silence, their steps slow and light, careful not to disturb the leaves, before disappearing into the shrubbery. The woods around the dusty road stayed perfectly still as the carriage inched towards the town of Nottingham. It moved at a sluggish, almost lazy pace, as if any jostles would disturb the travellers inside. The guards walked in a similar way, six on each side of the royal carriage. They were almost there now, having had no trouble at all for the duration of the entire trip.

Which was why everyone brushed off the quick _zap_ heard cutting through the trees as merely a bird. Everyone except the driver of the wagon, who only had a moment to register it as an arrow before he bled out through the neck. The two horses took no notice of their driver falling limply off the side of his seat and continued their slow walk after the carriage.

“Nice shot,” Sam muttered to Dean, before the two of them crept out of the bushes from beside the road as quickly and silently as possible. Sam was catching up to the wagon in seconds, clambering up to the driver's seat and taking hold of the reins.

As his brother brought the horses to a quiet stop, Dean shot a glance ahead of them. Judging by the way the party just kept going forwards, it was safe to assume that no one had noticed a thing. Then he pulled himself up onto the wagon, climbing over all of Zachariah's chests and boxes until he was seated at the very top. Sam urged the horses around and into a gallop, and Dean got one more good look of the count's convoy, before it became a distant fleck, then was lost, disappearing into the kicked-up dust.

* * *

Everyone hated Zachariah. That wasn't not an opinion – it was a _fact_. Dean couldn't remember the last monarch that was so collectively despised by an entire country.

The worst part of it was that he was never even supposed to _be_ in power. Zachariah was the brother of the late King Charles. His position at court had never gone above an advisory role, and it hadn't changed after Charles died, when his eldest son Michael took over. Michael was a good ruler, firm but fair, if a little distant, and he made it work for a long while.

But then three years ago, the Third Crusade came along and Michael, with two of his brothers and a huge army, headed off to war for the Holy Land. Which meant that there was no one left to keep the throne warm for him until he got back, except for Zachariah.

(That was a lie. There was Castiel, but Dean never really knew what had happened to him. He didn't like to think about it too much, anyway.)

So they were stuck with Zachariah, who had been itching to get his hands on the throne from the day he was born. And now that he got it, the consequences were disastrous. First came the doubled taxes, then the _tripled_ taxes until finally, one half of the population was living in poverty, while the other half was imprisoned for not paying.

Sam and Dean were no exception.

Their life up to this point hadn't been anything particularly grand, but they had their farm and their animals, and they were happy. John had died in a hunting accident a year before the Crusade, and having lost their mother in a fire when Sam was a baby, the farm came into Dean's hands. He had only been eighteen, but had watched John work for long enough to learn the ropes. With Sam's help, he ran the farm as well as his father had, if only with a few minor bumps on the road.

But with Zachariah raising the taxes before Michael had even reached Normandy, the farm was lost within two years under Dean's care. Which was a blow Dean felt not a little responsible for, but he didn't have a lot of time for self pity because now he had to figure out how to keep his little brother and himself from living on the streets. The solution to that, of course, was living in a forest instead.

Sherwood Forest was uninhabited and unguarded, despite technically being the king's land. But most importantly, it had everything they needed to live. There was shelter within the trees and the shrubbery, game to hunt, and wood to burn. Within a month, Sam and Dean were happily settled in – their home consisted of a fire pit, a giant oak with pegs in its trunk to hang pots and weapons from, a branch that served as a clothes line, and some tents.

And just because they were no longer yeomen didn't mean they were bored. See, Sam and Dean took up a new job: robbing the rich to feed the poor.

The treasury was raided every time new taxes came in. Any carriage travelling to town that looked like it had something valuable was ambushed. Nottingham Castle, now occupied by Zachariah's supporters, was broken into and looted without a trace left behind. And the money always went back to the rightful owners: the people of Nottingham. They made a name for themselves, and 'Winchester' came to have several meanings – a saving grace for some, a menace for others, and an endless nuisance for the sheriff.

They had never been caught, of course. Living a life as an outlaw taught you a wide skill set, and you needed to know all the tricks of the trade to stay alive. Still, there were _some_ things that Dean didn't know, even after living in the woods for two years – for example, cooking. Which was evident in the way that the soup he was meant to be stirring was now smoking.

_Shit_.

“Dean, you're burning the food!” Sam cried out from where he was sorting laundry, and yeah, _thank you_ , Dean had figured out as much.

Taking the pot off the fire, Dean stirred and blew until the profuse bubbling simmered down and stopped spitting.

“It's fine, see?” Dean said to Sam, who was coming over to inspect the damage. “At any rate, dinner's ready.”

Sam clicked his tongue, slapping the back of his head with a towel ( _“Dude!”_ ), but sat down and watched Dean ladle out some soup in two bowls. Within minutes after beginning to eat, Sam opened his mouth again. “You okay?”

“Funnily enough, my head stings like a bitch,” Dean muttered with no real anger.

“Not that,” Sam said, then gestured with his spoon, “I mean, stuff. In general. You looked like you had something on your mind just now.”

“Nope. Nothing,” Dean lied, because seriously, he just wanted to enjoy his soup in peace without his brother nosing around.

“You sure?” Jesus Christ, he was relentless.

Through grit teeth, Dean grunted, “Yeah.”

Unfortunately, Sam saw right through it. Dean groaned internally when he saw Sam set his bowl down beside him to give his brother his full attention. Dean expected him to spew some bullshit about 'talking about his issues' in that solemn voice he had when he worried. He definitely didn't expect him to ask, “Is it Castiel again?”

The fact that Dean started choking didn't seem to concern Sam at all. “What part of 'nothing' do you not get, Sam?” Dean demanded, between coughing and hitting his chest with his fist.

“Dude, you need to stop,” Sam told him with an annoyingly sympathetic smile. “It's been, what – ten years? This isn't healthy.”

Dean glowered at him. “I wasn't thinking about him, Sam. Now drop it.”

“But you were before,” Sam pointed out matter-of-factly. What was he, deaf? “Back in the tree – I had to practically knock you back into the present.”

“You almost knocked me onto the _ground_ ,” Dean clarified. Sam laughed, and despite his irritation, Dean chuckled too. After a pause, he sighed, and fuck, now _he_ was putting his bowl down too – they were actually gonna talk about this. Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, I was thinking about him, okay? I do that sometimes, when my mind wanders.”

“Dean...”

“Look, I know what you'll say. I heard you – it's unhealthy, blah, blah, blah.” Sam rolled his eyes, but made no indication to stop Dean from continuing. “I just... I can't seem to get him out of my head.”

“You guys were eight when you met. You're _twenty-two_ now, Dean. Do you even remember what he looks like?” Sam asked.

“Of course I do,” Dean retorted, instantly picturing the piercing blue eyes and the untamed black hair as if to prove Sam wrong. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, made him feel like he wasn't even present.

Sam waited a moment, before asking quietly, “Did you ever think of going to London? Finding him?”

Before he could think twice about it, Dean admitted, “Hundreds of times.”

“Well, why didn't you?” Sam insisted.

“Sam, what are you, five? You know why,” Dean snapped. “I had you to look after, and then the farm. I didn't have time to spare.”

“What about now?” Damn it, Sam was doing this just to annoy him, wasn't he?

Shaking his head, Dean picked up his soup bowl again and played around with its contents. “It's like you said – it's been ten years. I doubt he even remembers.”

And that was the big fucking question, wasn't it? There had been nights of sleep Dean lost simply by wondering – _hoping –_ that he still had a place in Castiel's mind, no matter how small. Even if he was just the kid he'd spent those few years away from home with, no more than a childhood memory. It would be enough.

“You could try--”

“No, I couldn't. I'm done talking about this, Sam.”

Before Sam could say anything else, Dean got to his feet and headed deeper into the woods, picking up his bow and quiver along the way. Maybe he could forget about the world for a few hours with some target practice.

* * *

“ _Cas!”_

_At the sound of his name, Castiel's gaze rose from his book, settling instead on the figure approaching him. Dean was running towards him, with a bow in hand and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. His smile would have otherwise warmed Castiel's heart, but today it only made it heavier. Cas could practically feel his resolve tearing at the seams, knowing how the news he had would affect that grin._

“ _Hello, Dean,” Castiel said once the other was in earshot, craning his neck to look up at him._

“ _Hey.” Dean held up his bow triumphantly and gave it an experimental pluck. “Check it out.”_

_Taking it into his hands, Castiel gave it a once-over. This bow was bigger than Dean's previous one, its wood perfectly smooth and gleaming. It was clearly new. “Did your father make this one too?” Castiel asked, referring to Dean's old bow._

“ _No,” Dean drawled smugly. “_ I _did.”_

“ _Really?” Castiel looked at it again more carefully, with new interest. Having been made by a twelve-year-old's hands suddenly made the feat all the more amazing. Then again, Castiel did have a tendency to be biased when it came to Dean. “It's a beautiful bow, Dean.”_

_As he handed it back, Castiel noticed a hint of a flush creep onto Dean's face, which hadn't been there before._

_Dean cleared his throat slightly, then took to plucking the string again. “It works pretty good, too. The arrow's a little wobbly when I shoot it, but Dad says the next bow will be better.”_

_Castiel hummed in agreement, but offered nothing else, letting silence settle down instead. The morning's letter was still on his mind, its contents endlessly pestering him. His thoughts must have somehow shown on his face, because after a moment, he heard,_

“ _Cas, is something wrong?”_

_Dean's face mirrored his own frown when he looked back up from his hands. Castiel's tongue turned to lead. He fumbled for words, his lips opening and closing soundlessly, unwilling to voice his thoughts. If he did, it would mean it was true, that it wasn't just a bad dream he ached to wake from._

“ _What happened?” Dean looked worried now, crouching down to level with the other._

_The tears that welled in Cas' eyes caught him by surprise, but not as much as the warmth he felt on his shoulder. It was Dean's hand, a steady, anchoring presence, and it pushed him to meet his eyes and stutter out, “Dean, I... I'm going back to London.”_

_He wished he could take it back the moment he said it. Dean's brow furrowed, the corners of his lips twitching down in confusion. “What do you mean? Like... for another visit, or...”_

_To his own horror, a hiccough broke past Castiel's lips, followed by a soft sob. His body shook, tears running freely now, and he answered, “I'm leaving Nottingham, Dean.”_

_The way Dean's entire face fell, the way the light suddenly left his smile and his eyes, made Castiel's stomach twist. It took him a moment to form any words, but when he did, his voice was quiet and hurt, almost like he didn't believe it. “What? Why?”_

“ _I have to. My schooling with Sir Joshua is finished, and my brothers want me back,” Cas explained miserably._

“ _But...” Dean trailed off hollowly, still not over the blow. Whatever he had wanted to say initially, he decided against it, and nodded instead. “They miss you a lot, don't they?” he mumbled._

“ _They do, and I do too,” Castiel admitted._

_It was true. But although he loved his siblings dearly, Dean was the kindest, most wonderful friend Castiel ever had. He never had someone who understood him so well, who stood by him and helped him without thinking twice. He didn't want to – he couldn't – lose that._

_Castiel forced himself to look up at Dean, but his figure was blurred by tears. It just made him feel worse. “But if I go, I'll miss_ you _. I don't want to leave you, Dean.”_

_Dean's lower lip trembled, but he kept himself in check. He replied hoarsely, “I'll miss you too, Cas.”_

_Neither said anything for a moment, each trying to calm down for the others' sake. Dean clumsily dropped to the ground and took a seat beside Castiel. The latter rested his head on his shoulder, like he was always prone to do. The silence was soothing – Castiel focused on the beat of his heart, on steadying his breathing. Even though he was still miserable, he felt better now that the truth was out, now that he got it off his chest._

“ _You won't forget me, will you?” he murmured feebly after some time._

“ _Of course not, Cas. I can't forget my best friend.” Jostling his shoulder, he said, “We might not see each other every day anymore, but you'll still visit.”_

_A beat of silence passed as his words sunk in. Dean tilted his head to look at Castiel, and Cas did the same._

“ _You_ will _come back, right?” Dean's voice was quiet, as if he was afraid of the answer. His eyes pleaded with Castiel's, begging him to say what he wanted to hear. But Cas couldn't._

“ _I-- I don't know,” he said._

* * *

He always meant to come back, but never did.

Castiel mused dejectedly from his place at the window seat, tracing the castle's sprawling lands. Ten years had passed since he'd been here, in Nottingham. Ten years since he had seen Dean.

He had been the best part of four years spent in Nottingham. Even after Castiel had moved back to London, back to his old life, Dean had always stayed in his thoughts, never really gone from his memory. Castiel had loved Dean before he even knew what love was, and had never really stopped.

“Oi,” came the voice behind him. “Stop it.”

Castiel turned around, only to be greeted by Balthazar's amused smirk. He had been reading on a divan across the room, but had abandoned his book in favour of scrutinising his best friend. “What?” Castiel asked, head tilting to the side.

“You have that look again,” Balthazar insisted.

Castiel squinted, brow furrowing in confusion, then remarked, “You couldn't even see me.”

“I don't have to, Cassie. I just _know_ you have the look.”

“ _What_ look?” Castiel demanded, now scowling slightly.

“The one you've been wearing ever since you decided to go on this bloody trip.”

Sometimes, Castiel rued how well Balthazar knew him. Frowning through the flush that was quickly rising, he said, “I have no problem with making this trip.”

“Right. Of course,” Balthazar waved him off with a nonchalant shrug. “On an unrelated topic, how many times have you thought about Dean Winchester since we got here? What is it, in the low hundreds now?”

Balthazar knew him _too_ well.

Castiel sighed. “Perhaps. It feels like it.”

“Cassie, you're _obsessed_ ,” Balthazar said as he crossed his arms, clearly pleased with himself. “When do I get to meet him?”

“Never,” Castiel cut him off with a reproachful glance.

Balthazar actually looked hurt. He whined, “Why not? I want to see what's so special about him that's had your panties in a twist since you were eight years old.” When Cas made no answer, he conceded, “Fine. So when do _you_ plan on seeing him again?”

“I'm not.”

But Balthazar carried on as if he hadn't been interrupted. “Granted, it will be a bit difficult to find him now that he lives in a forest.”

A sudden pang of sadness shot through Castiel at the remark. The thought of Dean living in complete poverty, forced to seek refuge in Sherwood Forest of all places, made Castiel's heart sink into his stomach. He and his brother were hunted like animals, when their only crime was helping those who Zachariah exploited and then rejected.

Castiel still remembered the evening he found out, the shock and horror branded into his memory. It was a dinner party thrown by Zachariah for his supporters. Castiel, stuck between two pompous old lords whose allegiance had been bought by his uncle, had been forced to listen to them gossip and drivel on about their glory days. But it was the mention of Sherwood Forest that had caught his attention, and he had politely asked about the subject.

The fatter of the two had looked at him in surprise. Had His Royal Highness not heard? Did not everyone know of Sir Uriel's foolish attempt to pass through those dangerous woods? He should have known better, what with those Winchester bandits lurking there, ready to rob you blind. Murderers and thieves, they were, ought to be hanged.

The conversation had turned to a different topic soon after, but Castiel had no longer wished to be a part of it.

Thinking about it still sent shivers up Castiel's spine, even now. Dean, _his Dean_ , was forced into this life because of him. Castiel should have fought Michael on his decision. Zachariah should have never been given the throne. Now Dean and his brother and all of Castiel's people suffered for it.

Balthazar read his discontent in his face. “Look, Cassie--”

“Balthazar, it's all right,” Castiel interrupted. “Really, we don't have to talk about this.”

The other shrugged and turned back to his book. “Fine, then stop moping. I want to enjoy this summer and I can't do that if you look at me with those sad doe eyes. It's bad enough we have to spend the whole time with your annoying uncle.”

Castiel shushed him, but couldn't stop the hint of a smile appearing on his lips. In a soft voice, he admitted, “It's true, Zachariah can be over-bearing at times. I don't think I could survive it without you, Balthazar.”

“I know,” he drawled smugly, before picking up his book, only to scan its contents in apathy and drop it again. “I'm _bored_ , Cas,” he moaned, throwing his head back like a petulant child. “Will you play backgammon with me before dinner?”

With a wry smile, Castiel answered, “Only if you don't cheat.”

“Me, cheat? I would _never._ ” Balthazar grinned, getting to his feet. As he headed for the door, he threw over his shoulder, “And if Zachariah sends for us, you'll be a darling and knock me unconscious with the board, won't you?”

“ _Balthazar.”_

But his friend simply waved back half-heartedly, leaving the door open behind him and starting downstairs. With another glance out the open window, Castiel gazed at the horizon, where the thatched cottages of Nottingham peeked out beyond the trees.

He had wished for this day for as long as he could remember. He was so close, after so long, and yet now the distance felt even greater than it had been in London. The very real possibility of seeing Dean again excited and terrified Castiel at the same time. He felt like a child again, eager to befriend the farm boy by the river, yet afraid of being rejected.

Castiel drew the curtain over the window, and it wasn't opened again.

* * *

Nottingham Castle remained more or less empty ever since Sir Joshua left for the Third Crusade, but nobles were known to come from all over the country at Zachariah's consent and stay a few weeks. The reason for this was the Royal Forest of the Peak, home of the best hunting grounds in all of England. It was said that the forest was so full of deer that men and hounds were often trampled by the startled beasts. For the nobility, Nottingham was synonymous with big hunting parties chasing after stags and foxes. Even Zachariah, when he could be pulled away from counting his money, preferred Peak Forest to any other place.

The forest's popularity meant that Nottingham Castle's own deer park was left greatly neglected. Which suited Sam and Dean just fine, because it left them to poach there without being interrupted.

“Dude, can you go any slower?” Dean called over his shoulder to Sam that morning, who was a good ten feet behind him. His voice was muffled due to the scarf over his nose and mouth, which both of them wore regularly, along with hoods, preventing people from remembering what they looked like.

Huffing, Sam came to a stop and straightened up as much as he could. He was able to send Dean a perfect bitch face with his eyes alone. “Sorry, which one of us is carrying the 400-pound stag?” he bit back, referring to the dead animal hanging over his shoulders.

“Thought that was like a couple of rabbits to you,” Dean teased, before setting off again. “Come on, we're nearly _out of the woods_ ,” he added as he pushed passed the thick layers of shrubbery and branches around them.

“That was awful,” Sam answered from the back.

Dean ignored the critique of his pun in favour of treading through the last line of bushes that separated the deer park's forest from the pasture. Then it was only a matter of climbing the stone wall on the other end and legging it to Sherwood Forest--

“Dean!”

He turned back to see Sam, emerging from the woods, point right behind him, then spun around just in time to move and narrowly miss being run over by a pair of horses. He stumbled, and would have fallen if it weren't for Sam ditching the stag and catching him.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam asked, shaking him slightly.

But Dean didn't have time to answer, because now the two riders were turning back and heading straight at them. _Shit._

Sam turned to his brother. “Do we run?”

Dean shook his head, already taking an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. “We'll never make it with the stag,” he said and took aim, instructing as Sam did the same, “You take the one on the left and I'll take the right, but don't shoot yet. Let's see if we can scare 'em off.”

The horses were almost in front of them now. Their riders' backs were turned to the bright morning sun, forcing Dean to squint as he tried to get a clear shot, but he couldn't see either of their faces at all. Tension seeped into his body as the horses slowed, and for a moment, the only sound heard was the dull settling of hooves into the grass. He tightened the grip on his bow, pulling the string until it was taut.

“Good morning,” Dean heard the man on the left call from atop his mount. The voice was more mocking than polite, and it immediately set him on edge. “Taking a stroll through the king's deer park?” With a side glance towards the abandoned stag, he added, mildly surprised, “Oh, and you've been poaching.”

“Well, we would have gone to Peak Forest, but it's so crowded nowadays. Besides, with all the nobility poaching there _,_ there's not much left for us _common folk_ ,” Dean quipped back. He saw Sam stiffen beside him, shooting him a look that said 'back off'. But Dean simply continued, “So we figured, why let the game here go to waste?”

“Leave them be, Balthazar,” the rider on the right said to his companion.

The man – Balthazar – ignored the other and asked in that condescending, smarmy tone of his, “I realize your education may be sub par, but you _do_ know that poaching the king's deer is considered a crime?”

“Really?” Dean feigned incredulity. “Wasn't the Vicar of Sheffield caught poaching the other day?” he asked Sam, whose response was an intensified bitch face. To the man, he added sarcastically, “Or did you mean it's only illegal if the commoners are doing it?”

That seemed to cross the line. Balthazar pulled out his sword and would have sent his horse forward if it wasn't for his companion suddenly ordering, “Balthazar, enough.”

The man turned to his friend and demanded, “Are you serious--?”

“These people are forced to break the law because of Zachariah's rule. We must help them, not strike them down,” the other said. Unlike Balthazar's, his voice was genuine, deep and rough like gravel. The two watched each other for a moment, and when Balthazar finally sheathed his sword, the man turned back to Sam and Dean. “Please, take the stag. We will not stop you. There is enough deer in this park to feed us all.”

Seriously, did this guy _really_ think they were gonna buy that? Dean wanted to ask just what game the dude was playing, but Sam beat him to it.

“Why should we believe you?” he demanded and aimed his arrow at the other's face to prove his point. “How do we know you won't simply kill us when our backs are turned?”

Balthazar snorted. “See? You show them kindness and they treat you like shit. Why bloody bother?”

His companion ignored him, and answered Sam instead, “I am forced to watch my people starve every day. If letting you take that stag means you will not go hungry tonight, I will gladly do so.”

Something inside Dean told him he wasn't lying, urged him to trust in his words. He lowered his arrow and looked at the man in bemusement. “So you're gonna let us go, just like that? No death, no fine, nothing?” he asked, his doubt obvious.

“Yes,” the rider confirmed, but then the other shoe dropped. “Under one condition.”

Dean scowled and contemplated raising his bow once again, but curiosity got the best of him. “What?”

He thought he caught a hint of hesitation before the rider decided to answer, but when he spoke, his voice was firm, “Come forward and remove your hood.”

In a flash, Sam stepped in front of Dean, his arrow still aimed at the rider. “ _No_. Try something else.”

“I do not wish to harm you. I said that I will let you walk free and I won't go back on my word,” the man said to Dean. “I just want to see your face.”

For a second, Dean didn't know what to do. Trusting the guy sounded like the world's worst idea, but there was that gut instinct to believe him again. Almost like there was something _familiar_ in the way he spoke, even in his mere silhouette.

Before he could change his mind, Dean dropped his bow and arrow to the ground. Sam spluttered as his brother side-stepped him and walked towards the rider's horse, planting his feet firmly in the ground, ready to bolt if necessary. Keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword, Dean drew his scarf down to his neck, and then carefully pulled back his hood, unleashing the sun into his eyes. The shock of it forced him to squint up at the horse.

“There. Now you've seen me,” he said brusquely, feeling blind and extremely vulnerable. “We free to go?”

Instead of answering, the rider dismounted, much to everyone's astonishment. Balthazar made a noise of protest and Sam hastily took aim again, but Dean only kept his eyes trained on the emerging figure, keen on seeing the man's face. Now that the sun was no longer blinding him, his vision adjusted to make out a head of black hair, strands of it illuminated golden by the sun, and eyes the colour of a clear summer sky.

No – there was no way, no freaking _way_.

Dean's throat became horribly parched all of the sudden, his mouth failing to form words. His heart thundered against his ribs like crazy to the point of bursting out of his chest. He swallowed thickly before whispering, his voice hoarse, “Cas?”

The blue eyes crinkled as Castiel smiled at him. “Hello, Dean,” he murmured in return.

Dean could only gape in amazement as his brain took a second to register that Castiel was actually standing right in front of him. It wasn't a dream or a memory – Cas was real and tangible and _here_. Without even thinking about the circumstance – or, hell, the _propriety_ of it all – Dean lurched forward and pulled Castiel into a clumsy hug, his shaky laughter ringing in his ears. Cas stiffened at first touch, but slowly relaxed into it as his arms wound around Dean's shoulders, his chuckle rumbling against the other's chest.

“Holy shit, look at you!” Dean exclaimed, pulling back and holding Cas at an arm's distance. He took a moment to study him from head to toe. “Dude, you're almost as tall as me now.”

“Have I changed much?” Castiel teased, and there was that familiar shy smile playing on his lips.

“Hell yeah,” Dean said, grinning wide, but looked pointedly at the top of Cas' head. “Your hair's still a mess, though.”

It was true – Castiel had changed _a lot_. He had grown out of the small, scrawny boy, into a lean and toned young man. His face was angular and sharp, having lost the childhood chubbiness. He was different and yet the same somehow, like the past ten years had been nothing. And his eyes – _Christ_ , his eyes were just as intense as Dean remembered, searing right through him and gazing at his soul.

Castiel laughed as he ran a hand through his hair, which really didn't help matters. His brow furrowed as he scrutinised Dean with that stare, more amused than perplexed. “I admit, I wouldn't have recognized you at all, if it wasn't for your disregard of rules,” he quipped and shared a meaningful look with him. “You still have a quick temper.”

Dean shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “Some things don't change, huh?”

Castiel hummed in agreement, before looking over Dean's shoulder. “And this must be Sam.”

Dean couldn't resist teasing him. “My little brother, believe it or not.”

“Hello, Sam.” Cas nodded in greeting. “We've never met before, but Dean had told me a lot about you.”

Sam, obviously having more manners than his sibling, removed his disguise and bowed to Cas. He started gravely, “Your Highness, I'm so sorry. Had we known--”

“There's nothing to apologise for. As I've said before, I know what life under my uncle's rule has led you to,” Castiel told him, his voice as serious as Sam's.

“Look, as moving as this reunion is, truly,” Balthazar called from behind them, clearly irritated. “Would you terribly mind getting on your horse, Cassie, so we can head back to the castle before said uncle does comes looking for you?”

As worrying as that very real possibility was, Dean didn't want Castiel to go so soon, not now when he'd just gotten him back. He racked his brain for any other option, but Cas was quicker.

“Then you will just have to go on without me, Balthazar, and keep Zachariah occupied,” he answered with a wry smile.

His friend rolled his eyes, scowling. “And if he asks where you are, shall I tell him you're fraternising with an outlaw?” he demanded.

Castiel, clearly familiar with the other's antics, simply said, “Tell him I've decided to prolong my ride, and that I'll be back shortly.”

Balthazar, now out of snarky responses, muttered, “Stubborn arses, the lot of you Novaks,” as he turned his mount around. The remaining three watched the horse set off into a trot and finally into a canter, speeding off back to the castle.

“Sam,” Dean turned to his brother, “take the stag back to camp. I won't be long.”

Sam shot a worried look towards the dead animal and then at Castiel, definitely contemplating whether that was a good idea.

Taking note of his hesitation, Castiel assured him, “There is but three of us in the castle. The stag will not be missed, I promise.”

After another bow (seriously, it was weird to watch – this was _Cas_ ), Sam headed back to where he left the deer, and it wasn't long before he was disappearing over the wall, in the direction of Sherwood Forest.

Dean turned to Cas, more elated than he'd ever felt these past years, only to see grief in his friend's eyes. “Cas, what is it?” He placed a hand on his shoulder, like he always did whenever Castiel needed comfort. It was amazing to see Cas lean into the touch, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I've been so worried, Dean,” he admitted softly, eyes slipping shut. He looked exhausted, not physically but emotionally, like a heavy weight had finally been lifted from his aching shoulders. “Not knowing if you were safe or caught or... worse.”

“Cas, hey. I'm _fine_ , see? Besides, it's not that bad.” He laughed at Castiel's doubtful look, insisting, “Really, it's not. We have a home and food, everything we need. It's just a little more dangerous, that's all.”

He could tell Castiel wasn't completely convinced, so he decided to change his tactic and switch to a new topic. “What brought you back, Cas?” he asked.

“The need for a vacation, and the courage to face this place again,” he admitted, eyes briefly fleeing to the ground. When he looked up again, his gaze was anxious and sincere. “I regret never coming back. I meant to, believe me, but something always prevented me.” As he shook his head, a faraway look flashed across his face, like he was back in a memory. “In the end, I suppose it was my own fear. I didn't know if I would be allowed to seek you out again, and avoiding the pain of forbiddance seemed preferable than feeling it, at the time.”

The answer meant more to Dean than Cas could possibly know. It meant that all of Dean's own fears, about Cas growing bored of him or simply forgetting, could finally stop haunting him. “It doesn't matter anymore, Cas,” Dean said. “You're free to make your own choices. You're here now, aren't you? It's proof of that.”

Castiel regarded him in reverence, a habit that always made Dean feel embarrassed because come _on_ , what was he compared to Cas? Cas, who always gave and never asked for anything in return, who listened and understood and cared so damn much.

“It's so good to listen to your voice again, Dean. You have no idea how much I've missed it,” he murmured, unwilling to break the silence that had settled around them.

“Believe me, _I know,_ ” Dean huffed, grinning. God, he just couldn't _not_ smile around Cas, could he?

His heart went off the charts again when Castiel pressed their foreheads together, and this time it was he who initiated the hug. It was soft at first, but tightened as their bodies settled into each other. And all of a sudden, Castiel was clinging onto him like he was his life line, fingers clawing into his shoulders and his face buried into the crook of his neck. Dean responded in kind, rubbed soothing circles into Castiel's back with one hand as the other tightened around his waist.

It was then that Dean realised that this longing, this ache after ten years that simply disappeared in the blink of an eye at Cas' mere presence-- Christ, it wasn't just friendship, this was love. He had always written off his feelings as a child's admiration, but it was quickly dawning on him that he'd been completely wrong. Dean had loved Cas from the very beginning, just as he did now.

And it scared the shit out of him. How the hell was it supposed to work out? As much as he wanted Castiel with him, Cas didn't deserve the life of an outlaw. And Dean definitely couldn't just run off to London with a bounty on his head, could he?

So Dean Winchester did what he did best: ignore the problem at hand and be stupidly selfish instead. Right now, he had Cas back and that was all that mattered.

“When will I see you again?” Castiel mumbled against his skin, sending tingles up Dean's spine.

“Soon,” Dean promised, though in all honesty, he had no idea. His life didn't exactly follow a schedule. But he'd figure something out. He'd sneak into the castle if he had to, or hell, sneak _Cas_ out like they were teenagers or something. And as ridiculous as it was, the prospect of it made his grin uncontrollably.

The smile didn't leave his face even after he had watched Castiel ride away, and it stayed with him the whole way home.

* * *

Dean wasn't stupid. He was cocky, sure, and hotheaded, but he wasn't _stupid._ And he wasn't blind either – he noticed things, contrary to popular belief, like Sam glancing at him from the corner of his eye every five goddamn seconds when he thought his brother wasn't looking. Seriously, it was starting to piss Dean off.

So the next time he felt Sam's eyes boring into his back, Dean made sure to catch him in the act and demand louder than necessary, “ _What_ , Sam?!”

The sudden rise in volume made Sam jump and drop the shirt he had been putting up to dry. As he picked it up, he stammered, “N-- Nothing!”

Dean stopped what he was doing (i.e. putting up wet laundry) so Sam could feel the full effect of his glare. “Sam, seriously. What the fuck are you staring at me for?” he retorted.

Sam shrugged as he wiped some dirt off of the fallen shirt. “It's just... about last week.”

“Oh.” Dean's glower melted away as he realized with horror that he was _flushing_. “That's none of your business, Sammy,” he mumbled and picked up where he left off.

“Come on! Just tell me what happened with Castiel,” Sam insisted and no, no, no. No way in _hell_ were they talking about this.

“Sammy, I'm _warning_ you--”

“Have you been to see him since then?”

“Christ, Sam!” Dean hissed at him. “What are you? An oversized, twelve-year-old girl?!”

Sam smirked and said nonchalantly, “Well, _you're_ the one head over heels for the guy.”

“ _Hey!_ ” Dean barked, but he had nothing after that. He just gaped at Sam like a fish, pointing threateningly with his finger.

“Oh my God, you can't even deny it--!” Sam laughed, but it was cut short by the wet sock thrown at his face. “Ugh! _Dean!_ ”

“You asked for it,” Dean said with a shrug, turning back to the laundry.

Sam made to retaliate with another shirt, and Dean was just about to duck when they heard an exasperated yell of, “What the hell are you two idjits doin'?”

The two of them spun around to see Bobby Singer, Nottingham's blacksmith and an old family friend, making his way through the dense shrubbery with a scowl. “Keep up with the noise and the sheriff's men might actually have a chance at finding you.”

Laughing, Dean stepped forward to give Bobby a hand. “Hey, Bobby. How are things in town? Everything find a place?” he asked, in reference to the goods stolen from Zachariah, which Bobby had taken away two weeks ago.

“Sure did. The Harvelles send their thanks, and Rufus too. Now, what else you got in that circus wagon? I have more orders.”

Sam and Dean led Bobby to the wagon they had stolen two weeks back, stashed behind a boulder and camouflaged with dense foliage. The next half an hour was spent digging through Zachariah's belongings, looking for something worthwhile to bring back to the people in Nottingham.

As kids, Sam and Dean had often spent afternoons at Bobby's smithy, watching him work as they waited for John to finish his business in town and take them back to the farm. It was Bobby who accompanied the Winchesters in hunts, and along with John, taught the boys how to stalk prey. Though not technically blood, Bobby was the closest thing they had to a relative now that John was gone. Through Bobby, Sam and Dean managed to stay in contact with Nottingham, listening for anyone in need of help. It was perfect – no one ever suspected the old, grumpy blacksmith with the limp to be in league with outlaws.

“You boys better be careful, you hear?” Bobby said as they headed back to their camp. “Sheriff Crowley's on the look-out for you.”

“When is he not?” Sam snorted, as he handed the sack of goods back to Bobby.

“This time it's serious,” Bobby said gravely. “Zachariah's pissed. He wants you caught and hanged.”

“We'll stay low, Bobby,” Dean promised.

“You'll need to, 'cause he's going all-out. He's even throwing some sort of phoney archery contest this weekend to try and wheedle you out of hiding.”

“An archery contest?” Sam asked. “What, 'cause the stories go that we're some kind of master marksmen who haunt the woods?”

“Hey, don't sell yourself short, Sammy,” Dean teased. “We're not too shabby.”

“Well, whatever he thinks,” Bobby said, “he's making a big hoopla out of it. Gonna give some golden arrow out as a prize to the winner. He's dragging everyone to come and see it, even his poor nephew, who's only here for a holiday--”

“Whoa, wait-- Nephew?” Dean blurted before he could stop himself. “You mean Cas is gonna be there?”

Bobby's face scrunched up as he asked, “What the hell's a Cas?” at the same time Sam moaned, “Dean, _no_.”

“What do you mean, _no_?”

“You heard Bobby, Dean! It's a trap for us--”

“So what? You expect me to just chicken out?”

“It's not chickening out! It's playing it safe!”

“Look, I wouldn't stay long, I just wanna see Cas--”

“ _Hey!_ ” Bobby's roar startled them out of their dispute. Christ, Dean was sure he'd gone deaf now, thanks a lot. “Someone wanna clue me in? Why the sudden interest, and who's Cas?” he asked.

“Prince Castiel,” Sam, the fucking snitch, sold him out in a second. Dean squawked indignantly, but Sam didn't even bat an eyelid.

Dean wanted to strangle him and would have if Bobby hadn't rounded on him furiously. “The goddamn prince, Dean?! You wanna see _him?_ ”

Suddenly defensive, Dean responded tensely, “Yeah. I mean, if he's there, why not?”

“How do you even know the guy?” Bobby demanded, and Sam was only too happy to supply the answer.

“He used to sneak into Nottingham Castle as a kid to go play with him.”

Dean turned on him again. “Sam, what the actual _fuck?!”_ Christ, he could _feel_ all his blood rushing to his face. When he saw Bobby getting ready to holler at him again, he quickly broke in, “Yeah, okay! I know that it's dangerous, but look, I'll leave before any of the actual arrow-giving happens. That's when he'll try to catch us, isn't it? When one of us wins and they know exactly who we are?”

Sam seemed hesitant to answer. With a side glance at Bobby, he conceded, “Yeah, I guess.”

“So, we leave before the ceremony even begins, and we're good to go!” Dean insisted.

“I don't know, Dean...”

“Come on, it'll be fun,” Dean cajoled, wiggling his eyebrows. “We'll show off a little and make Zachariah look like an idiot in the process.”

Sam looked from Dean to Bobby, the latter of which simply shrugged, then finally gave in. “Fine, we'll go. But the minute the thing's won, we're out of there, all right?”

“Deal,” Dean grinned.

It turned out to be easier than anticipated. That weekend found Sam and Dean hovering near the archery fields, disguised in yellow and red hoods respectively. They had gotten in without so much as a second glance from the guards, with Sam using the entrance on the east side and Dean using the one on the west. Honestly, the hardest part had been finding each other in the massive crowd, but sooner than later, Dean spotted his brother's towering form in the sea of people.

“You seen Castiel yet?” Sam asked, his voice low as he kept an eye on the people milling around them, in case someone seemed suspicious.

“Yeah, he's in the royal box,” Dean answered discreetly. “But it's crawling with soldiers. I can't even make eye-contact with him, let alone get close enough to say something.”

“We'll just have to wait and see,” Sam said, clearly displeased. “But Dean, listen. We're leaving right after the tournament ends, regardless of whether you got to talk to him or not.”

“Okay, I _get_ it,” Dean said with a roll of his eyes.

At the sound of a trumpet, people started making their way towards the main field, chattering excitedly. There was a shout from somewhere that all archers were needed at the targets. Sam and Dean shared one last look, and without another word, set off in separate directions.

* * *

Castiel stifled a yawn as he watched another wave of arrows sail for their targets. The archery tournament was reaching its final stage now and he thanked God for it. Why his uncle decided to spring it out of nowhere was beyond him, and even more so was the fact that it had to occur in the early hours of the morning.

In truth, when he had first heard about this tournament, his thoughts immediately flew to Dean. Knowing his boldness, it was possible he'd be tempted to sneak in. Cas had been torn between wanting Dean there and at the same time, wanting him anywhere else. The tournament was sure to be highly guarded (and it was), and it would be a risk coming, even in disguise. However, there hadn't been any sign of Dean the entire morning, and though Castiel felt the disappointment in his heart, he knew it was better that way. Though now, he was left to suffer the tedious event with no hopes of relief.

“If I don't die of boredom, it will be a bloody God-given miracle.”

Unlike Castiel, who retained his manners and kept his thoughts on the tournament private, Balthazar made his displeasure known. His friend blankly watched the space in front of him, sitting so low in his chair that he might as well be lying in it.

“You've managed this far, Balthazar. Just try for a little while longer,” Castiel comforted him, smiling. “You still have a long, fulfilling life ahead of you, and I'd like you to see it through.”

“Cheeky bugger,” Balthazar teased, shooting him a playful grin as he shifted one leg over the other. At the sound of applause, he raised his chin in order to see better, and asked, “What's going on?”

“The last shots have been fired,” Castiel told him. “Now they'll decide who will shoot in the final round.”

“Brilliant.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Castiel?” Zachariah asked with a pompous smile, leaning over to the seat beside him.  
“Yes, uncle,” Castiel replied politely, despite it being a blatant lie.

“I'm glad to hear it, nephew. I'm quite pleased with the outcome myself.”

Though Castiel returned a small smile, something about Zachariah's tone seemed odd and set him on edge. Putting it aside for the moment, he watched the announcer pick out the two finalists – Sheriff Crowley and an archer in red, who was said to be from the town of Locksley, in Yorkshire. The other archers – including the morning's third place, a man from Hathersage, Derbyshire, clad in yellow and over six feet tall – left to the stands as the finalists took position.

To his own surprise, Castiel found himself actually interested in the last part of the tournament. Sitting up slightly, he watched as Crowley took aim at the target, now all the way across the field; the furthest it had been all morning. He released his arrow and within the blink of an eye, it was over – the arrow had struck the dead centre.

Castiel could make out the smug smile Crowley sent his rival's way, who took no notice of it as he lined up his shot with the target. His hood caused a shadow over his face and with the distance, it was impossible for Castiel to make out what the man looked like.

The audience went silent as the man in red pulled back the string. For a tense moment, no one stirred or made a sound, and then--

The arrow zipped through the air faster than Castiel could follow. When he finally looked at the target, he couldn't believe what he saw. Everyone sat in shocked silence as they took in the fact that the man's arrow had _actually_ split Crowley's previous shot in two, causing it to fall off. Then, as realisation slowly dawned, cheers broke out for the clear winner – the man in red.

“Did you see that?” Castiel asked Balthazar, who could only laugh in disbelief.

From the corner of his eye, Castiel caught movement. It was his uncle, but instead of getting ready to present the winner with the golden arrow, he yelled, “Guards!”

In the blur of celebration, soldiers came out from every side of the stands and surrounded the man in red. There was fighting – he could see him struggling against the rope they were forcing him into. The audience slowly fell into confusion, murmurs and shouts mingling in the air as the man was brought forward, led by the sheriff.

Castiel looked to Zachariah in shock. “Uncle, what is the meaning of this?”

Zachariah, immensely pleased with himself, replied, “This man has tried to trick us all, Castiel, but I was one step ahead the entire time.” To the guards, he ordered, “Remove his hood.”

Castiel's world stopped and he watched in horror as the hood was yanked back, revealing a head of blond hair and the bloodied face of Dean Winchester.

Their eyes met, and Castiel felt the burn of tears behind his eyes when he realised that Dean's anger was masking fear within. Cas' hands shook, body cold and numb all over, as a chant of _no, no, no_ fell from his lips.

It did not take long for everyone to catch on to what had occurred, and as discontent rose in the audience, Zachariah spoke again. “Sheriff Crowley, do you recognise this man as Dean Winchester?”

For a second, Castiel imagined he'd seen Crowley hesitate to speak. After briefly glancing at his guards, he said, “Yes, my lord. This is him.”

“Well, Dean. It's nice to finally meet you in person.” Zachariah watched Dean with a deadly glint in his eye, with the satisfaction of a man who knew he had won.

“Can't say the feeling's mutual,” Dean grit out at him. His eyes still stayed on Castiel, like he was determined to remember every single feature of his face.

With a horrible lurch, Castiel realised that this could very well be the last time they saw each other. Dean might have been making the most of it.

Zachariah's eyebrows quirked, before carrying on in an overly official tone, “Dean Winchester, you have unlawfully pillaged from the innocent and are wanted by the Crown on counts of theft, blackmail and murder. For your crimes, you are to be hung from the neck until dead. Do you have anything to say?”

Dean's gaze finally left Castiel's and settled on Zachariah instead, furious and taunting. “Only that I'll die knowing I wasn't half the thief and murderer that you are,” he spat with a smirk.

Castiel could see the muscle in Zachariah's jaw jump. “Very well,” he replied coolly. “In that case, I hereby change your sentence and order that you are beheaded and put to death immediately.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” Crowley's voice came from behind Dean. “By immediately, am I to understand you mean _right now?_ ” he asked, the hint of a sneer playing at his lips.

“Yes, you idiot! Right now!” Zachariah growled. “Prepare the prisoner and have someone bring forward an axe and be done with it! I don't want to see his face anymore.”

There was a faint murmur of, “Right, that's what I was afraid of,” from Crowley, but Castiel didn't pay attention to it. Instead, he stood and rounded on his uncle.

“Zachariah, stop this madness,” he said sharply, forgoing all politeness or respect.

Zachariah had the audacity to look affronted. With a sniff, he asked, “What do you mean, Castiel?”

“I will not let this tournament become a public execution,” Castiel said, his voice uncharacteristically hard and loud. He rarely ever spoke like this in his life, and it sounded alien to his own ears. He was wholly aware that others could hear him as well.

“But my dear nephew,” Zachariah reasoned with a patronising smile. It made Castiel's gut burn with fury. “Don't you want to see justice done?” he asked. Castiel was disgusted by the supercilious sneer his uncle shot at Dean.

“If this man is killed today, there will be no justice,” Castiel answered resolutely. “Now, I order you, as your prince, to call off the execution.”

“I'm afraid I have to decline,” Zachariah responded quietly, no longer smiling.

“How dare you?” Balthazar demanded, now standing too. “That was an order from your direct superior. You _must_ obey.”

“You forget, _dear nephew_ ,” Zachariah growled, ignoring Balthazar. “ _I_ hold the throne, not you.”

Castiel was this close to punching him right in the teeth (and he had been taught to hit so it hurt), when there was a sudden cry from in front of them. Crowley had doubled over in pain, hand to his nose, after evidently being shouldered in the face by Dean. In a matter of seconds, Castiel's heart was beating wildly again as he watched Dean run.

Zachariah spluttered at his guards. “Stop him! He must not get away!”

But it was too late. Dean had already been met by Sam, who tossed him a sword, and now they fought past the guards side by side.

Castiel did the only logical thing – he jumped over the barrier of the royal box, with Balthazar screaming after him.

As he pulled out his own sword, he warned the remaining guards blocking his path, “Get out of the way, or I will not hesitate to kill you.” He was glad to see that someone still obeyed the commands of their prince as the guards parted far away from him.

Castiel was about to set off into a run again, only to have Balthazar catch up to him. “Have you gone completely insane?!” his friend yelled, stopping right in front of him.

“Will you fight with me?” Castiel asked instead.

“Dear God, you _have_.”

“Will you or won't you?”

Balthazar exhaled the most put-upon sigh in the world, before taking up his sword. “Yes, of course I fucking will,” he grumbled and it was all the answer Castiel needed before running off again.

They made quick progress through the guards in their way, who were all flocking around Sam and Dean, as well as the screaming masses, desperate to get out. He heard the two brothers yelling to one another, varying between remarks about the positions of guards and sarcastic comments. It wasn't long before he had Dean locked in sight, and it was enough to disperse all the fear he had kept bottled in. In seconds, he was crossing the field towards him, striking down anyone who came near him.

Dean was stunned to see him, to say the least. “Cas, what are you--”

But before he could say anything else, Castiel silenced him with the hard press of his mouth. The kiss was rough and desperate and over within a second, because Castiel had to pull Dean back just in time to run an oncoming guard through with his sword.

Dean gaped wordlessly as the dead soldier slid to the ground. “Holy _shit_ , Cas.”

“Thank you,” he said wryly, before swinging his sword again. “Do you and Sam have an escape plan?”

“Y-Yeah. Try not to die and then run for it,” Dean grunted while he cut down another guard.

“That is _not_ our plan!” Sam yelled from the front.

“Shut up and watch your two o'clock, Sammy!” was Dean's exasperated response. “Just keep moving to the right! When we get close enough, run for the forest. Sam and I will cover us with arrows.”

“Sounds good enough to me,” Balthazar grit out, before shoving the guard currently impaled on his sword back and onto the ground.

The four of them worked together, strategically switching between offence and defence as they edged towards the line of trees that was Sherwood Forest. Castiel didn't leave Dean's side and neither did the blonde leave his, each covering the other as they led the way towards safety. Balthazar and Sam, each on one side, brought up the rear and fought back any approaching guards. When there was only a few left, Dean nodded to Sam and the two of them switched to their bows.

“Go, we'll catch up,” Dean told Cas, though his eyes didn't stop watching the soldiers.

Castiel would have protested if it wasn't for Balthazar, who gripped his arm in an iron vice.

“You heard lover boy,” Balthazar said, before hauling Castiel to the trees.

They ran as fast as they could, not stopping until they were far enough, where the guards would not be brave enough to follow. They did not know these woods – Sam and Dean _did_ , and could easily use it to their advantage.

Sam hunched over, hands on his knees and looking like he was ready to pass out. “I'm gonna kill you, Dean,” he groaned, not even bothered that they weren't alone.

Dean looked from his brother to Castiel. When their eyes met, his face, though still covered in blood and cuts and already bruising, was lit up by a bright grin.

The sight had Castiel's lips breaking into a smile too, and upon seeing it, Dean murmured, “Totally worth it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the rest of it!
> 
> Again, I'm super sorry guys, I planned to be really productive this summer, I had two other fics planned that would've been this long (if not longer) and another shorter one. I will try my hardest to write during the school year (Em and I have started planning one fic already), but seeing as it's my last year of high school and I've got my A Levels and all, I'm not sure how much time I'll have. Hopefully, I'll write more next summer before uni, because I can't imagine doing much else other than moving to another country.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!

They didn't leave the camp until the cover of night, spending the day taking turns keeping watch in case Zachariah sent anyone after them. Although the atmosphere was pretty tense, what with the lurking danger and all, conversation and laughter flowed easily around the camp fire during dinner. Once they finished eating, Sam volunteered to clear out the pots and plates, and Balthazar – with some prodding from Castiel – said he'd keep him company, leaving Dean and Cas free to go off on their own.

That was how they ended up sitting by the riverbank, skipping stones across the surface of the water as they talked quietly.

“Dude, I taught you how to do this when we were kids,” Dean said when Castiel's rock went under at the first throw. “You're out of practice.”

“Well, there aren't many bodies of water in a castle in London,” Castiel replied, smiling. He watched the other send another stone skidding cleanly across the river, before asking softly, “Dean, may I ask you something?”

“ 'Course you can, Cas.” Dean turned to give him his full attention.

The moon provided just enough light for him to make out Castiel's eyes, crinkling and bright like the stars. It suddenly hit Dean that this was the happiest he'd ever seen Cas since he got back – he looked glad, genuinely and completely _glad_ , with no trace of worry or seriousness on his face.

“How did you and Sam ever end up here?” Castiel asked, as he leaned his shoulder against Dean's.

“In Sherwood?” Dean clarified. “It's nothing you can't guess. We had the farm, then the taxes were raised, and then we _didn't_ have the farm. We needed a place to stay, so the forest was our best option.”

“And you've been here all this time?” Cas' eyes were so blue in the moonlight, and Dean hated the way they burned with guilt and sadness.

“About a year after the Crusade started, and pretty much ever since then,” Dean confirmed. “But Cas, there's nothing to feel sorry for, okay? It's not your fault Zachariah's a major douche.”

“That may be so,” Castiel said with a sad smile, “but nonetheless, your suffering _is_ my fault, Dean. I should have been the one to take the throne, not Zachariah.”

Dean admitted, “I always wondered about that. What happened?”

“Michael thought I was too young, both for war and for the throne. Even though I was willing, he believed the stress of running a country in his stead would be too much. Compared to a nineteen-year-old, a man like Zachariah, who had experience at court and with ruling, seemed like a better choice,” Castiel explained, though he laughed hollowly at the bitter irony. “My brother is a wise man, but even he makes mistakes. I should have listened to my own instincts and not his, and I cannot forgive myself for it.”

“Cas,” Dean said gently but firmly, and cupped Castiel's face with his hands to force him to listen. “It wasn't your fault. You were a _kid_. If anyone's to blame, it's Michael.”

“Don't talk like that. It's treason.” Castiel smiled wryly as he took Dean's hands in his own.

“I don't care. It's the truth, and I'm not gonna let you beat yourself up about this,” Dean insisted seriously.

Castiel expected too much from a child who was barely of legal age. It wasn't fair to blame himself so harshly for a mistake his brother had made. Dean needed him to know that, because the look of total agony on Cas' face right now was killing him.

Slumping his head on Dean's shoulder, Castiel decided tiredly, “Let's not dwell on it anymore, please. Talk about something else.”

“All right,” Dean conceded, before continuing, “We need to figure out how to get you back to London.”

“What?” Cas' head shot up. “Dean, I'm not going back. ”

“Cas, I need you to be somewhere safe.” Dean shook his head, because this wasn't a discussion. He was _not_ gonna argue about this. “After today, you have to get as far from Zachariah as possible.”

“And you think going to London is the answer?” Castiel shot back in a deadpan voice, growing more and more tense beside Dean.

“Christ, Cas-- I don't know, okay? You need to stay low with another family, someone who you can trust--”

“There are none, Dean!” Castiel exclaimed. “Believe me, I've looked. So many times, I've tried to shift the rule from my uncle to me, but I need strong support for that. And I will not find it while all of England's nobility is in Zachariah's pocket.” His voice grew calmer now, and he murmured, “If I return to London, I will be handed back to my uncle immediately, trust in that. The safest I can be is here with you.”

Determination burned in Castiel's eyes, and suddenly Dean was reminded that he was dealing with royalty here. Cas could be damn intimidating when he wanted to be.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean said in resignation. “I disagree, but if that's what you want, I'm not gonna stop you.”

“You don't need to worry, Dean,” Castiel reassured him with a small smile. “If it comes to it, I can protect myself. I think I've proven that today.”

“Damn right you did,” Dean said, grinning in awe just thinking about it. “Probably the most awkward time for me to get a boner, though.”

Chuckling, Castiel buried his face into the crook of Dean's neck. The sound of it made Dean's chest rumble with laughter as he stroked the dark hair on Cas' nape. “I just... I can't lose you, Cas,” he admitted through a light flush. “I love you too much to let that happen.”

Castiel stayed silent, reappearing with an awestruck smile on his lips, and looked Dean dead in the eye. In a shy murmur, he said, “Then you can understand why I can't lose _you_.”

Dean's heart basically stopped beating in his chest. He watched wordlessly as Castiel shifted his weight, leaning in closer.

They were inches apart now, and Dean could feel the tingle of Cas' breath on his lips when he said, “I've already left you once, and I will not be doing it again.”

Acting on pure selfishness, Dean closed the gap between them and dragged Castiel on top of him, his thighs caging his lap. The last thing he saw was Cas' eyes slipping shut, before doing the same and focusing entirely on the body pressed against his own. As Cas' fingers got lost between sandy blond strands, Dean's own hands hitched the other's shirt up slightly, tracing his sharp hipbones. He heard Cas' voice catch as Dean bucked up in search of friction, responding with a roll of his hips.

A sliver of tongue passed over the seam of Dean's lips, encouraging him to be bolder, push further, demand more. He chased the tongue back into Cas' mouth, and one nibble on his bottom lip was enough to open him up. A muffled moan broke out from Cas' throat as Dean licked inside, and he could feel it vibrate against his own chest. His breath felt warm and sweet against Dean's mouth, hands carefully cradling the back of his head.

The tenderness of Castiel's touch was a sharp contrast to the burning Dean felt inside, his heart pounding so loud he was sure Cas could hear it too. The string of breathy _ah, ah, ahs_ falling from Cas' lips was driving him crazy.

Their lips parted with a smack because Dean needed to remember how to breathe again. He relished the way Cas' chest grazed his as he breathed in and out deeply, completely wrecked from his hair to his lips to his clothes.

Dean shifted slightly in search of a more comfortable position, and in doing so caused his already uncomfortably hard dick to rub right against Castiel's own erection. The red-hot friction made Dean hiss, and Cas, who had been rasping into his neck, moaned unabashedly,

“Dean, please.”

The sound of it made Dean's dick twitch in interest, and he was sure Castiel had felt it brush against his stomach. “You want me to touch you, Cas?” he asked, half-sincere and half-teasing, cupping Cas through his breeches.

Castiel gave a quivery gasp, nails bluntly digging into Dean's bicep, and whimpered, “God, _yes_.”

It was all the answer Dean needed. After gently pushing Cas back a little, he undid the strings of his breeches and pulled them under his hips. But before he could spit on his hand, Castiel pulled the arm away from him.

Dean was about to ask whether he changed his mind, but the words disappeared into a jumble of meaningless sounds when Cas _fucking dragged his tongue from the bottom of his palm all the way up to the tips of his fingers holy shit that was amazing_. Dean watched in complete awe, consumed by the tingling sensation Cas' tongue left on his skin.

“Cas, you're gonna be the death of me,” Dean said hoarsely after Castiel repeated the process and pulled away like it was no big deal.

Cas, the damn tease, just smiled sweetly and said, “Please, go on. I'm sorry I stopped you.”

Well, if that was the way he wanted to play it, then fine. Dean wasn't one to back down from a challenge.

Dean gripped him firmly at the base and squeezed ever so slightly, sending Cas keening, eyes pinched shut and chest heaving. He started working his hand at a slow and steady pace, wanting to first dedicate some time to Castiel only, before getting a start on himself. Swiping his thumb over his tip, he spread some of the beading precome to help with his grip, all the while listening to Cas repeat his name over and over again like a prayer. With each stroke, Castiel's hips rocked forward for more friction, his cries rang louder, and his grip on Dean's shoulders grew tighter.

“You have no idea how much I wanted this, Cas,” Dean said in a husky whisper as Castiel peppered his throat and shoulders with feather-soft kisses. “Wanted you so bad, sweetheart.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” Castiel mumbled between pecks, and Christ, he really never stopped with the banter, did he? At the flick of Dean's wrist, he dug his face into his neck again, humming in delight. “Always – _ah_ – wanted you, only you.”

Pulling his chin up, Dean kissed Cas through his grin, slow and languid and deep, in time with his unhurried strokes. Finally, Dean used his free hand to untie his own breeches and began working them both together in one hand. Castiel mewled at the contact, eagerly rubbing up against Dean with nothing between them now. The touch alone had Dean's eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

“I've thought about you so often,” Castiel admitted low, breath ragged. “What you looked like, what your voice sounded like, how your lips would feel and taste.”

And God, didn't that do things to Dean. Speeding up his hand, he pushed their bodies closer together so he could catch Cas' bottom lip in his teeth. Between sucks and nips, he rumbled, “Ever think about me fucking you, sweetheart?”

Cas visibly shivered, voice breaking around a breathy, open moan. “ _Yes_ , more times than I care to admit.”

Dean's fist was working faster and faster now, conscious of the heat pooling in his stomach. And if the way Castiel was clawing at him was any indication, his body was aching for release too.

“Soon things aren't crazy any more and we have a moment to ourselves, I'll lay you out, do whatever you want me to do to you,” Dean promised against the shell of Castiel's ear. After a chaste kiss on his temple, he murmured, “But right now, I want you come, Cas.”

And _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Cas didn't need to be told a second time. He came in hot, white spurts between their stomachs, and the fact that he did that on Dean's word _alone_ forced him to give in too, pumping them through their orgasms. All he could see was white, vaguely aware of Cas gasping his name into his ear.

He slowed down when they were both spent, then tucked them both back into their pants and wiped his hand against the grass. Castiel rested his forehead against Dean's chest, purring in satisfaction when the other's hand lazily ran up and down his back. Dean smiled, glad to see he was sated, and just _breathed_ for a while.

At one point (Dean was too groggy to remember when exactly), Cas rolled off his lap and they lay down side by side, arms entangled and heads touching. They'd stay like that for a little bit, then head back to camp before Sam or Balthazar started worrying.

But for now, it was just them and the stars watching from above.

* * *

Cas was a really good hunter. Like, _scary_ good.

Sure, Dean knew that nobles loved going on hunts, but he always somehow thought that it was to pass time rather than learn any skill. He didn't think they were actually _good_ at it. But Cas took it to a whole new level. He knew exactly what he was doing with his bow and arrow, and shot with precision that would make even the best archers nervous. He could read tracks, stalk prey in perfect silence and bring it down like nobody's business. It was Castiel who had caught the doe they now carried back, not Dean.

He was terrifying. Amazing and impressive and really fucking hot, but still terrifying.

All in all though, Dean would call their hunt quite successful. He'd have been happier catching a stag, what with having four mouths to feed now and not two, but given that Zachariah had tripled the number of soldiers on the look-out for them, Cas and Dean had figured that the less time they spent in Nottingham Castle's deer park, the better.

As they entered the security and seclusion of Sherwood, Dean voiced his thoughts from earlier, asking, “Where'd you learn to shoot like that, Cas?”

“My brothers started taking me hunting with them when I was fifteen,” Cas answered over his shoulder, “in royal forests near London. Usually Middlesex.”

“Yeah? How did that go?” Dean asked. He still remembered all the times Castiel had told him about his brothers' various antics. They seemed to be a lively bunch, to say the least.

“Mostly, it was just Lucifer and Gabriel with me, but Michael joined us whenever he could.” Then Cas shot him an anguished look, and Dean threw his head back, laughing. “Having three teachers, especially ones so different, could be trying at times. There was much conflict between their methods,” he explained. “Still, I always enjoyed spending time with my brothers. Seeing them again was the only thing I looked forward to when I moved back to London.”

Questions suddenly piled up on Dean's tongue. He had always been strangely interested in Cas' life in London. As a child, he had often worried that Castiel found new children to play with and forgot about him. Now, he just wanted to know how Cas had spent all those years away, what growing up in such a different environment from his own was like.

Before he could think better of it, Dean asked, “What was it like in London?”

Castiel sent him a curious look, surprised by the question. “Strange at first. I was eight years old when I left it. And after four years in Nottingham, I forgot what life was like in London. It took time to get used to being surrounded by a city, and not the countryside. I no longer had you to talk to, or Sir Joshua as a guide.

“But time went on. I continued my education, I remembered how to live with brothers instead of a mentor. I learned and I read and... I just lived. That became the life I was used to. But I still thought of Nottingham almost every day. Thinking back to the moments spent with you could entertain me for hours.”

“Not that that isn't a huge ego-boost,” Dean said, chuckling, “but did you at least try making friends?”

“Ah, but if you remember,” Castiel returned, and sent the other a meaningful look over his shoulder, “there were no other children at court.”

“What about Balthazar?” Dean pointed out. “You seem like you've known each other for a long time.”

“Well, that's different,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. “When I turned fourteen, Michael decided to take in a ward from an allied noble family as a companion for me. He chose Balthazar, who was just a few months older than me. As different as we are from each other, we grew close immediately. He's become a part of our family.”

They were just beyond their camp now, able to make out the tents hidden in the trees a few feet away. Dean was about to give further directions about the doe when he heard Sam urgently shout his name. He shared a look with Cas, and without another word, they dropped the doe and hurried into the camp.

The first thing they saw as they approached was Balthazar, just coming back with firewood. He shot them a questioning look, having obviously heard the call too.

“What happened?” he asked Castiel.

Before either of them could answer, the sound of footsteps pounding against the ground pulled their attention away. Sam was running towards them, eyes wide and frantic as he yelled, “Dean, they got Bobby!”

Dread settled in his heart, and Dean felt himself go cold all over when he saw the fear etched in his brother's face. “Who took him?” he demanded, stepping forward to meet him.

“Zachariah's soldiers. Friar Jim just told me. They jumped him at the church not an hour ago.” At Sam's answer, Dean saw Castiel's jaw tighten. “They're keeping him in the castle's prison. He's under complete lock-down.”

“How did they know about him?” Dean asked, because it just didn't make any sense. _No one_ knew that Bobby worked with them. “Was Crowley there when they arrested him?”

“No, they weren't his men. Apparently, Zachariah had spies watching the woods last week. They must have seen Bobby at one point.” Sam hesitated to speak, and that only made Dean more tense. He didn't like the way Sam's face contorted with pain. “Dean, they're planning to hang him at dawn.”

His heart stopped at the words. Fuck, Dean could feel bile fighting its way up his throat. Christ, they _couldn't_ lose Bobby too.

Dean felt hands wrap around his arm, keeping his steady. He looked up to see Castiel's eyes, all too blue and worried and so sorry. But when he spoke, his voice was firm and resolved, “Dean, we're going to save him. It's not too late. ”

“Cas, that's exactly what Zachariah wants,” Balthazar countered, then turned to Sam. “Don't you see? He's using your friend to lure out of hiding. The moment you show your face there, he'll have you surrounded.”

“It doesn't matter! We're not leaving Bobby to die,” Dean retorted.

Sam looked like it physically hurt him to shake his head. “Dean, I know, but what can--”

“No, Sam, that's not up for debate. You and I are busting him out, _tonight_.”

“You and Sam?” Castiel repeated incredulously. “I'm coming with you, Dean.”

“Cas--”

“You didn't honestly believe he'd stay behind,” Balthazar asked Dean with a mockingly sympathetic smile. “Or I, for that matter. If Michael finds out something happened to you, Cassie, I might as well die with you.”

“Okay, your optimism aside,” Sam said, scowling at him. “Dean, assuming we even get into the castle without being noticed, how will we free Bobby? And how are we gonna get out?”

Dean didn't answer immediately, though an idea began to form in his mind. Out of it came out a plan – an _insane_ plan, but at least it was something. Instead of saying anything out loud though, he simply told them, “Give me two hours.”

“What are you going to do?” Sam demanded in exasperation.

“I'm going to town,” he said, tying on his scarf over his mouth. “And _trust me_ , it'll be easier if I do it alone.”

Without waiting for any sort of reply, he handed Sam his bow and arrow, then headed out of the camp, pulling his hood over his eyes.

* * *

Dean didn't say anything when he finally returned, except that he'd figured out a way to get in and out of the castle undetected. Although Castiel trusted Dean's judgement, he still worried that Dean was too caught up in his emotions to think clearly. He knew what Bobby meant to Dean from childhood experience, knew that Dean would be willing to do anything to save him, and that was what troubled Cas. The last thing he wanted was to see Dean harmed.

Nevertheless, at three o'clock in the morning, the four of them were standing on top of the castle's southern wall. Using an accidental blind spot there, they were able to cross the moat with a makeshift raft and scale the wall with some rope and a hook. But with guards patrolling along the castle walls, the safest thing to do was to climb down immediately.

They only had an hour till dawn, but it was their only window of opportunity. Most of the guards would be focused on securing the area around the castle's gallows at this time, as that was where they believed the Winchesters would come, rescuing Bobby just as he was being brought out. Castiel had no idea how Dean possibly knew this, and when he asked, the blond said that he'd explain everything later.

Castiel barely recognised the castle's courtyard in the dark. Suddenly the whole place seemed cold and unwelcoming, sending his heartbeat into a frenzy. Shadows took the form of guards that lurked in every corner, just waiting for them to step into the blazing glow of torches.

The warm touch of Dean's hand on his shoulder was a welcome feeling, and it simmered his nerves down enough for him to focus. Turning to Dean, Cas pointed out the direction of the prison, then waited for him to assess the surroundings and give the sign. When he did, Castiel didn't waste a second.

Though it was barely a five minute's walk from where they stood, getting to the prison took much longer than expected. All too often, they were forced to hide behind walls or under arches by passing guards. Sometimes they needed to wait several minutes for them to leave, wasting their already short time span.

After a painful fifteen minutes, Castiel led them into the shadow of a balcony before attempting the final stretch. The tower in which the prison was situated stood just across them now.

Suddenly, the light of a torch appeared on the wall just ahead of them, and before Castiel could take any action, the sheriff himself came around the bend. Castiel's breath stopped as he watched his eyes widen a fraction, then approach them in a hurry, scowling.

Instantly, Castiel and Balthazar pulled out their swords, but were stopped when Dean whispered hastily,

“Wait! Don't attack him!”

Castiel gaped at him in utter confusion, but before he could even ask just what exactly he meant, he heard,

“What took you so long, Winchester? I said _three o'clock_. You know how bloody long I've been waiting here?”

Castiel blinked once, twice, trying to establish who had spoken, because it _surely_ couldn't have been Crowley.

But it was. Castiel looked to Dean – he could see no fear or tension in his face, just slight annoyance. “What is going on?” he asked in a deadpan.

“Seriously, Dean? _Crowley_ was your plan?!” Sam hissed at his brother.

Dean ignored both of them, and instead told Crowley, “Well, maybe if you didn't have guards posted at _every single fucking corner_ , we would have gotten here sooner.”

“What was I supposed to tell Zachariah? Send all your men home tonight, my lord, there's no need for any of them because I'm trying to help those Winchester idiots break in?!” Crowley seethed.

“He's on _our_ side?” Balthazar asked Castiel, face scrunched up.

“Unfortunately,” Sam muttered.

“Excuse me, but some blooming gratitude would not be out of line here,” Crowley warned him. “I could very well die for this.”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel rounded on the blond in exasperation.

“Look, Crowley's been working with us for a couple of years now,” Dean said quietly. “He helps us stay out of trouble every now and then. See, he doesn't like Zachariah's rule either.”

Castiel looked to Crowley, who simply smirked. “The sod makes me pay more to stay on as sheriff than your brother ever did.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Dean went on with an eye roll. “He's arranged everything for us. The break-in, the escape. He even got Zachariah to post all of his soldiers at the gallows.”

“But hang on,” Balthazar cut in. “If my memory serves me correctly, _he_ was the one who gave you up at the archery tournament. You know, the one you nearly got beheaded at?”

“I had to,” Crowley said with a nonchalant shrug. “Four of my men there knew what he looked like already. I warned him not to come in the first place, but he just _couldn't keep away_.” He smirked knowingly in Cas' direction.

“Shut up,” Dean told him, and to Balthazar, he explained, “It didn't matter anyway. When Zachariah wasn't paying attention, Crowley loosened my bonds and let me punch him in the nose.”

“And that makes everything all right, I suppose.” Castiel looked at him wryly.

“Look, do you want to go save Bobby or not?” Crowley asked Dean. “I told the guards at the prison they were needed elsewhere, but it'll only give us a quarter of an hour.”

“That's more than enough time,” Sam said.

After crossing to the tower, Crowley made quick work of unlocking the door and leading them to the highest cell, where Bobby was being held. The blacksmith sat on the cold ground, back slumped against the wall and hands chained above his head at an awkward angle. Having been kept in complete darkness, he was momentarily blinded by Crowley's torch, unable to see his visitors.

“What do you want now?” he growled. “You know what dawn looks like, you idjits? When the sun comes out--”

“Bobby, it's us,” Sam said, rushing forward and kneeling in front of him. With a steadying hand on his shoulder, he told him, “We're getting you out of here.”

“Great. I didn't feel like dying today, anyway,” he said as Crowley began to unlock his chains. “And you,” he snapped at the sheriff, “how about a little warning next time I'm about to be arrested?”

“Good to see you too, Robert,” Crowley drawled sarcastically.

“Will you knock it off?” Dean called from the hall, where he was keeping watch.

Castiel saw Crowley roll his eyes, but the sheriff made no other comment. When Bobby was finally freed, he was helped out the cell by Sam, where Dean was waiting to grab him in a hug.

Pulling back, Dean started, “Bobby, I'm so sorry--”

“Don't bother with that now, boy. Let's just get outta here.”

Once they were back outside, Crowley said to Dean, “I'll distract the guards with a false alarm by the north wall. You just get to the exit as fast as you can.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean said. “Thanks, Crowley.”

“Don't thank me yet,” Crowley muttered. “If we all hang for this, I'll be comforted knowing I won't have to kill you myself. And if we don't, you owe me big time.”

With that, Crowley headed back to the gallows, while the rest of them made their way to the south wall. However, Bobby's limp meant that their progress was even slower than before. The good news was that Crowley's diversion seemed to work; they heard shouting not long after they had parted, and now guards were flocking to the north. The sheer number of them was staggering – Zachariah wasn't taking any chances this time.

“Bobby, you know that you're gonna have to stay in Sherwood for now, right?” Sam whispered. “Soon as Zachariah figures out you're gone, you'll be on his list with the rest of us.”

Bobby grunted in response, “Well, at least I won't be paying taxes.”

“How far are we, Cas?” Dean murmured to the other.

At the front, Castiel replied over his shoulder, “Almost there. The south wall is just down that street there, and around the corner.”

Dean was about to respond, but a gruff shout from behind them beat him to it.

“You there! Stay where you are!”

Castiel's blood froze as he saw three guards running towards them, each with a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. Within seconds, he was drawing out his own blade, along with Dean and Balthazar, while Sam ushered Bobby behind him.

The clash of steel against steel was thunderous in the dark silence surrounding them. The first guard came at Castiel, who quickly relieved him of his torch, but got an elbow to his face for his efforts. It sent his head spinning, barely able to dodge out of the blade's way in time. He took his chance while the guard's back was turned to kick the back of his knee, sending him to the ground.

For a moment, he stood paralysed, reluctant to deliver the final blow. This man had previously been in the service of his brother, and now just followed orders made in his name. He had no choice but to listen to Zachariah.

The guard was getting to his feet now and Castiel had to decide quickly. He chose to spare him, and struck the back of his head with his sword's hilt, sending him to the ground again, unconscious. However, the problem was far from over. The shadows of men, illuminated by torches, ran across the wall behind them, obviously having heard the commotion. It was a matter of minutes before they arrived around the corner.

Dean must have noticed as well, because he turned to his brother and said, “Sam, get Bobby out of here and head for Sherwood--”

Sam cut him off almost instantly. “Dean, there's no way in hell I'm leaving you here alone.”

“He won't be alone,” Castiel said. “I'll stay with him. There is no use in trying to dissuade me,” he added to Dean, knowing he was about to argue without even having to look. “Balthazar, you should go with Sam.”

“Cas--” Balthazar started with a scowl.

“Sam will need your help if you meet more guards. Go, I'll be fine,” Castiel assured him.

When no one moved, Dean snapped urgently, “Don't waste time. Just go!”

Sam and Balthazar each took Bobby under one arm and headed towards the exist as quickly as they could. As they disappeared into the darkness, Dean turned back, his sword lifted, but Castiel stopped him.

“There's too many to fight, if the shadows are any indication.” Castiel jerked his chin at the silhouettes, which were growing by the second and outlined at least half a dozen men. “We'll have to outrun them, but we can't risk leading them to the south wall.”

“That kinda limits our options. You know of any other exit?” Dean asked, sheathing his sword.

Castiel met his eyes gravely. “Other than the main gate, I do not.”

“We'll just have to figure it out as we go,” Dean told him with a crooked smile as the first guard appeared around the bend, sword at the ready. He slipped his hand into Castiel's, then asked, “Run?”

“Definitely,” Castiel replied, before spinning them around.

As the two of them bolted down the narrow alley, Castiel racked his brain for an inkling of an idea. The main gate, if even open in the first place, would be shut the minute they were seen approaching. The only thing left was to manoeuvre the guards around the castle, giving the other three enough time to cross the wall. Perhaps then Dean and he could make a run for the south, and take their chances scaling the wall while being shot at.

He told Dean as much, who then replied, “Okay, just keep leading us in circles until it's safe to try the wall.”

Castiel nodded, already picturing the castle's grounds in his mind. He had spent four happy years running between these walls, watching everything and everyone that passed him. He could remember each corner and turn like he was staring right at them. Coupled with the fact that both he and Dean happened to be fast runners, they managed to keep a good distance ahead of the guards. Yet despite Castiel taking any obscure, dark path he could find in hopes of shaking them off, the torches steadily burned behind them, the voices of men not far behind.

Castiel prepared to make a turn that would complete their first circle through the grounds, just waiting to reach the corner and zip right. But when they did, he was shocked to see their path blocked by another group of guards running right towards them.

“Cas--?” Dean started, but Castiel tugged him in the opposite direction, forced to go left instead, despite knowing where that way led.

“Dean, in a few minutes, we're going to run into a dead end,” Castiel informed him calmly, even though his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. “If we want to avoid getting caught, there's only one way to go. How good are you at kicking down doors?”

“I can get the job done, why?”

“Because we're going to run inside the watchtower, and from there, we'll have to try jumping onto the walls.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

True to his word, Castiel led them to the tower not two minutes after, where Dean wasted no time in pummelling the door right beside the handle, forcing it off its hinges. They hurried in, but barely stepped onto the first stair when guards started piling in.

Castiel had just enough time to pull out his sword and run the guard that charged at him right through. He pulled his sword out, ready to swing again, and the force of his movement sent the dead soldier to the ground, body and sword and all. Which meant his torch too, and it fell right at Castiel's feet.

The incredibly sweltering summer they had been experiencing recently meant no rain in weeks, and no rain meant dry wood. This included the wooden stairs, and allowed them to catch fire in less than a minute.

Castiel watched in horror as the flames licked up the railing. “Dean,” he called, parrying another guard's sword and disarming him. “Run, _now!_ ”

When Dean caught sight of the growing flames, he blanched and said, “On it.”

Without even caring about the other guards, they hurried up the stairs. Going in circles at such a speed made Cas increasingly dizzy, and it was all he could do not to fall over and break his neck. They climbed higher and higher and higher, until finally they reached the top, surrounded by the cold night air at all sides. Castiel could hear the crackle of fire below them, and already the heat could be felt beneath the floorboards.

“Cas, there's no where to go but the roof!” Dean said. Without waiting for Castiel to respond, he grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side, where they started climbing over the railing and upwards.

The conical roof wasn't slippery, but it was steep enough to almost send them to the floor several times. Castiel led the way as he quickly but carefully circled around to the nearest wall, then inched towards the edge. The distance was daunting, but manageable, and the drop down to the wall was lower than he expected. However, the fall they'd face if they missed was not, but right now it sounded better than being flayed alive.

He shared a look with Dean, who simply shrugged, before the two of them lurched forward. For a split second, Castiel felt nothing but the wind whipping through his hair. Then he felt his knees painfully crashing into stone, but knew that they made it.

Ignoring the stinging in his legs, he got to his feet and turned to Dean. “If we go right, we'll get to the south wall--”

Cas didn't get a chance to finish however, because an archer appeared on top of the wall just a few feet away from them. With his bow already nocked, the archer pulled back at his string and took aim right at Castiel, seconds from shooting.

Shock paralysed Castiel and suddenly his mind went totally blank. All he could do was wait for the inevitable impact of the arrow and the searing pain in his chest as he bled from the heart.

Before that could happen though, Cas felt Dean wrap his arms around his waist and yank back, sending them over the wall and towards the moat below.

* * *

For the first time in years, Dean woke up feeling well-rested and completely at ease. He couldn't remember the last time he was this relaxed after sleeping, having grown used to anxiety settling in his chest the minute he could think straight.

Often, it would be a sudden noise that rousted him, or sometimes Sam, when it was his turn to stand watch or worse, if danger was at hand. Now, it was the afternoon sun, peeking from the canopy of leaves and dancing across his eyes. It was the soft rustle of shrubs in the breeze. It was Castiel nuzzling deeper into his chest, his breath tickling Dean's skin.

Dean pulled Cas closer until he was draped over him, then pressed a kiss into his black hair. As he settled down again, Dean idly dragged his thumb across Castiel's bare shoulder, content to let the sun's rays play over the contours of their naked bodies. After last week's events, he needed to just have Cas next to him, needed to hold and _feel_ him.

He'd been terrified out of his mind when he watched that archer aim straight at Cas. He didn't even want to think about what might have happened had he not pulled them over the wall's stone barrier and into the water of the moat. The only thing that had been on his mind as he had struggled to break the surface was Cas – the need to get him out of the water and somewhere safe if he'd been hit. Dean had managed to pull both of them onto the shore and under the cover of the trees just in time, where they would be out of the archer's range. He still remembered the immense wave of relief that washed over him when he saw that Cas wasn't bleeding, that he was breathing just fine and _alive_.

Dean's arm instinctively tightened around Castiel before he could stop it. A moment later, Cas responded with a hum rumbling in his chest, eyes blearily opening and shifting into focus.

Lifting his head to take a look around, he mumbled in a daze, voice rough from sleep, “Dean, what... Did we doze off?”

“Fell into a coma, more like,” Dean teased as he stole a quick peck from him. “Looks like it's almost two in the afternoon.”

“If I recall, we were supposed to go for a short walk before lunch,” Castiel said. “Instead, you dragged us into the first bush you could find to have sex.”

“Hey, _you_ were the one who brought us here to make out, remember?” Dean pointed out, gesturing to the shrubbery around them. “I just... took it a little further.”

“ _A little_ is an understatement. I'm sore all over,” Castiel complained, though the smile on his lips hinted that he wasn't as bothered about it as he claimed to be.

“You asked for it,” Dean teased with a grin, the memory of Cas begging still fresh in his mind. And well, Dean had never been able to say no to Cas.

“It seems I have overestimated my abilities,”Castiel quipped in return, smiling softly. “Joking aside though, we should be getting back. The others might worry.”

“They won't,” Dean assured him as he gently pushed Castiel back into the grass. Rolling over and caging him with his body, he lowered his head to suck on the skin on Cas' neck. Between kisses, Dean murmured, “Let's stay just a little longer.”

Castiel didn't seem to have a problem with this, cupping Dean's chin so he could press their lips together. As Cas' fingers wound into Dean's hair, the blond easily deepened the kiss, his mouth lazy and languid against Castiel's. Dean rolled his hips in slow circles, eliciting a satisfied moan from Cas as he pushed up against his body in search of friction. Castiel shifted beneath him, opening his legs wider, urging the blond closer by his hair. Dean was about to make a joke about Cas' soreness, but it completely blanked out of his mind when the other's hand strayed down his sides and slipped between their groins. Pretty much all he could think about after that was needing to be inside Cas _right now._

Another hour had passed by the time they finally appeared at the camp. Dean had been right in expecting that they wouldn't be missed – the only response they got when they showed up was a sly smirk and an eye-roll from Balthazar and Sam respectively. Lunch had gone cold when he and Cas settled down to eat by themselves, but neither really cared.

The rest of the afternoon passed in much the same, slow manner. Things had settled down considerably since Bobby's rescue and they hadn't had any trouble in a week, which for Sam and Dean, was a brand new experience. Maybe Zachariah had taken the fire as an attempt on his life and decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Dean didn't know and didn't really care, so long as the sudden streak of peace continued.

Unfortunately, it was only able to continue for all of three hours after that, when Crowley's unannounced appearance put an end to it.

“God, what is it now?” Sam groaned as he sat up in the grass, obviously thinking along the same lines as his brother.

“Relax, Moose. I come as a bearer of good tidings,” Crowley teased. That, along with his mysterious smile, was enough to get everyone's attention. They stopped whatever they had been doing, all eyes settling on the sheriff.

“What is it?” Dean asked from where he and Cas had been sharpening swords.

“It is with great sorrow that I inform you of Count Zachariah's departure to London,” Crowley said, taking a seat beside Bobby at the fire pit. “He will be greatly missed by all, I'm sure.”

Dean laughed. “ _Finally_. At least that's one less thing to worry about.”

“I wasn't finished.” Crowley looked directly at Castiel now, and with a slightly raised eyebrow, he told him, “Zachariah left for London because he has been summoned there. News has reached England that the quest for the Holy Land ended some few weeks ago. Sadly, Jerusalem has been lost.”

Castiel's face suddenly contorted in sadness, gaze falling to his hands. Dean understood that is was a blow in more ways than one for him; Jerusalem had been the main objective of the Third Crusade, which his brothers had risked their lives for. Not only that, the failure to recapture it also meant that the past three years of Zachariah's tyranny had been endured for nothing.

“What of my brothers?” Castiel asked after a silence, face tense as he waited for the answer. “Will all three come home?”

“King Michael and both princes will be in Normandy by tomorrow tonight,” Crowley answered. “They'll be emotionally and spiritually devastated, I imagine, but they will return nonetheless.”

“Thank God,” Castiel murmured, smiling at Balthazar.

“They'll land in England within three hours after reaching Normandy, if wind is right,” Balthazar told him through a wicked grin.

“And they'll arrive in London within two days after that,” Castiel concluded, nodding. “I need to be there when they do.”

The meaning of his words hit Dean a second after, but when it did, he immediately shook his head. “Cas, no. You can't go back to London while Zachariah's there.”

“That is exactly why I _must_ go, Dean,” Castiel said. “I fear that my uncle might try to take the throne by force before my brothers return.”

“He wouldn't dare,” Balthazar countered, looking horrified at the idea. “Not when Michael has an army on his side.”

“Michael's men are exhausted from three years of fighting,” Castiel told him sadly. “Zachariah is not a fool, Balthazar. If there is even the slightest possibility for him to hold on to the throne, he _will_ do it.”

“What do plan you on doing?” Sam asked.

“Zachariah's power lies with the nobles who allied with him. They will lend him men should he try to overthrow Michael. Without their support, he has nothing,” Cas explained, his voice growing impassioned with each word. “If I can get them to leave his side, I could imprison him before Michael even gets back.”

“But _how_ , Cas? You've got nothing to buy them back with,” Dean told him. Christ, the risk was too high and the chances of success practically non-existent. How couldn't Cas see that?

“Michael's men may be all but spent, but do not forget that they are devoted to him. They will find the strength to fight if it is their king's order. When Zachariah fails to usurp the throne, the first thing Michael will do is rid the court of any other traitors. And who will he trust unconditionally when he can no longer tell friend from foe?” Castiel smiled, dangerous and goddamn terrifying. “I am the king's beloved and ever-loyal brother. The the fate of the nobility will lie with me. If I tell Michael they have endorsed my uncle's actions from the start, he will not hesitate to kill them. However, if he is informed that they have so _graciously_ helped me stop the usurper, then perhaps he will be lenient.”

“Bloody hell, Cas,” Balthazar muttered with an impressed smirk. “Still, it's only _possible_ that Michael's army comes out on top. You think it will be enough to make them feel threatened?”

“No,” Castiel said gravely, “it will put the fear of God in them, possibility or not. Nobles are always terrified of their king, and Michael is a force to be reckoned with when he feels vengeful.”

Listening to Cas' plan unfold, Dean made a memo to _never_ piss him off. Having his family threatened made Cas remorseless. Dean had never seen him like that. He felt like he was watching a different person – it was so unlike the soft-spoken, kind Castiel he was used to.

Anger still boiled in Cas' veins; Dean could tell by the way his entire body was thrumming. In an attempt to calm him, the blond placed a hand on his knee, hoping that the familiar touch would be soothing.

And it was. In a second, Castiel was leaning into his shoulder, eyes closed as his breathing steadied. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before finally turning to look at Dean. His eyes were sad, but determined. “Dean, I will have to leave tonight. I need to protect my people as I should have a long time ago.”

Dean nodded and looked him hard in the eye. “I know, Cas. That's why I'm coming with you.”

Smiling, Castiel admitted, “Now I understand what you felt when this situation was reversed. But I must be a hypocrite and insist you do not follow me. This is far more dangerous than anything we've been through before.”

Dean gripped his shoulder like he was trying to shake some sense into him. He could feel his throat closing up, the words nearly choking him as he whispered, “Cas, I need to be there. You could _die._ ”

“I could have died several times this summer,” Castiel reminded him. “But I didn't. And I won't now.”

As much as he wanted to argue, Dean could tell there was no more use. So that night, he got ready to say goodbye to Cas again, and it sucked just as much as it did the first time.

He and Balthazar would be travelling on horses stolen from the castle. Their plan was to ride as far as Leicester, where they would switch horses, and then again at Northampton and Dunstable. The constant changes would allow them to waste as little time on rest as possible, since London was almost two days away. Dean didn't even think that Cas planned on taking any pauses for himself, except when he couldn't fight sleep or hunger any longer.

Dean lingered by Castiel's mount, double-checking that his supplies were in order. As he fastened his sword to the saddle, a hand covered his own, and he turned to give Cas what he hoped was a comforting smile. Judging by the way the corner of Castiel's mouth twitched, it didn't work.

Dean dropped the act and let his face shift into a worried frown. “If anything goes wrong, Cas, I don't care how you do it, but you let me know, all right? Promise me.”

“I promise,” Cas conceded.

God, how did he look so calm while Dean was losing his mind? Dean knew he wasn't overreacting, okay? He was reacting _just enough_. He couldn't believe he was losing Cas again. Never in a million years did he think he'd have to feel this dull, persistent ache again.

“Be careful,” was all Dean had the strength to say, but Castiel seemed to understand him just fine.

“I will,” he said and tilted his head to press a soft kiss to Dean's lips.

But it just wasn't enough, not when the stakes were so high. Dean pulled Cas in by his waist, his hold on his hips an iron grip, fingers digging into flesh. A quiet moan escaped past Castiel's lips as his tongue slipped into Dean's mouth, pleading and desperate. Dean tried to memorise everything he was feeling at the moment; the warmth and taste of Cas' lips, the brush of his noses, his short breaths on Dean's cheek. Christ, he had no idea when he would get to hold him like this again, if ever.

Cas pulled away just enough to murmur into the seam of Dean's lips, “This time, I _will_ come back. I promise, Dean.”

“I know,” the other mumbled as he forced himself stepped back. Watching Castiel mount his horse, Dean told him with a half-smile, “Good luck, Cas. Kick Zachariah's ass for me.”

“I will be only too happy to,” Castiel responded, grinning.

After a nod to Sam and Bobby, he and Balthazar turned their steeds around, setting them off into a trot, then slowly working up into a canter. Dean didn't move an inch until they were swallowed up by the dark forest, and the sound of hooves melted into the silence of the night.

* * *

The next few days were nerve-wrecking, as they waited for any sort of sign that Michael was back on the throne and that Zachariah was gone for good. All of England was buzzing about the king's ships arriving at Dover, but that was pretty much it. Dean was so caught up in it that he could barely function normally, checking with Crowley every day in case Cas sent anything remotely akin to a cry for help. No such message ever came, which he would have taken as a good thing if his brain hadn't helpfully supplied: _Wait a minute, maybe he's not writing because he's dead._ Dean didn't get much relief from his worries after that.

And then finally, _finally_ , a change. Dean knew that Castiel had succeeded when the taxes went back to normal. After that, people all over the country were pardoned and released from prison. Land was given back to those who lost it. And the best news of all: Zachariah was in prison.

Nottingham slowly got back into the swing of things. Now that people weren't starving anymore, they could return to life as it had been three years ago. Crowley deemed Bobby free to return again and continue working in his smithy. Crops grew again, houses were rebuilt, and the town rose from the ashes, bustling with life once more.

For Sam and Dean, things changed drastically now that the people of Nottingham were saved. Though they remained in Sherwood (because they were technically still wanted by the county, dead or alive), they no longer robbed travellers in the forest. There was no point in it anymore. Nottingham didn't need the money, and the Winchesters certainly didn't need it either. They had everything in forest, always had and always will.

An entire month passed before they knew it, spent hunting, gathering wood, picking herbs, and sleeping – _a lot_ of sleeping. And all the while, Dean never forgot Castiel's promise. He believed that he would come back, he did. He understood that it might take a while longer, but that didn't mean he liked it, or even had the patience to stand the wait. Christ, he hated waiting.

Without much else to do, Sam and Dean spent their afternoons lazing around in the shade and napping (like he'd said, there was plenty of that). Today was no different; after finishing a nice venison and mushroom broth, they were content to just lie in the grass and sleep the heavy meal off. Dean could already feel himself drifting off to dreamland, teetering on that line where consciousness and sleep blurred.

Of course, that was the moment that hooves sounded not far from the camp. Damn Crowley's bad timing. Dean groaned, dragging his forearm over his eyes, determined to ignore the sheriff. Crowley didn't visit much anymore, just every now and then to bring news from town. As much as Dean tried, he couldn't block out the horse's nickering as it came to a stop, nor the heavy fall of boots approaching him.

“Listen,” Dean grunted without giving Crowley chance to speak. “You mind coming back in like, an hour? I'm beat and I really could use with a nap right now.”

“All right, if that is what you wish,” came the answer, but it wasn't Crowley's voice.

Dean froze, taking in the deep baritone, the soft hint of amusement in it.

Whipping his hand off his eyes, Dean sat up to see Castiel leaning over him with a smile, the sun's rays caught in his black hair like a halo. In seconds, Dean was clumsily pulling him down beside him, not caring that Sam was three feet away and looking incredibly scandalised.

The first press of their lips was disastrous, wrecked with longing and excitement. Both of them were laughing like crazy, which left them struggling to kiss through their grins. The second was an improvement, as Dean got a better grip on Castiel's shoulders, allowing the other to cup his chin. It was slower this time, gentle yet firm, proof that this was real. With a soft smack, Cas pulled back, and even though Dean really wanted to keep kissing him, he let him sit up straight.

“I'm sorry, I didn't think I'd be away this long,” he started, “but my uncle left lot of damage that had to be undone. You'll be happy to learn he's been imprisoned, however.”

“Yeah, the town threw a party when the news came. We didn't sleep for a week,” Sam said, grinning.

“I can imagine,” Castiel said. “England looked much better to me as I rode back. The people are recovering well, and soon Michael will establish a normal rule again.”

Dean hummed in agreement as he rubbed Castiel's back, unwilling to give up touching him altogether.“What happened when you got back, Cas? Any problems?”

“Not beyond what I expected. My plan worked perfectly,” Cas answered, and Dean was surprised to see an _actual_ smug smile on his face. “The nobles surrendered almost immediately, and Zachariah was captured the next day. Just in time for Michael to give his final judgement on his future.”

“How are your brothers?” Sam asked at the mention of the king.

“They've taken the loss of Jerusalem well, better than I thought they would. Though I suspect that the time spent travelling back was used to come to terms with the fact,” Castiel admitted. “They're completely drained, physically and mentally. It's why I suggested we all come here together.”

Dean's mind back-tracked. “What do you mean, here? Where's here?” he stammered.

“Nottingham,” Castiel said, feigning innocence. “The hunting here is unparalleled. Well, that, and Michael has come to give you each a knighthood.”

“He-- What?” Sam spluttered. “Knighthood?”

Dean could only gape at Cas. The words just weren't processing to his brain, it seemed. “He actually wants to _knight_ us?”

“Of course. It's your pardon. He wants to repay you for risking your lives to help Nottingham's people,” Cas said as he got to his feet.

“But, Cas. We broke the law,” Dean pointed out, still in a daze.

“Technicalities.” Castiel shrugged, then pulled Dean up because he clearly wasn't going to do it himself. “Come, we should go. He's waiting for you at the castle. It won't take long, you'll be knighted and then formally given a plot of land. I think it's all you'll need to start a normal life again.”

“We're getting _land?_ ” Sam really couldn't do much other than repeat after Cas.

Dean, on the other hand, couldn't say _anything_. He just stared at Cas, who stared right back, eyes crinkling and bright and blue.

Holy shit. This was actually happening. They could start up their farm again. Hell, they could have _two_ farms if they wanted to. He and Sammy would have to work hard to get it to the standard their father kept it at, but it could finally happen.

There was really only one thing left to say.

As he tugged Cas closer by the waist, Dean grinned crookedly. He could feel excitement thrumming through every part of Castiel's body, just as it did in his. “You know, you once told me you'd like to live on a farm.”

“I did, didn't I?” Castiel said with a squint, like he was trying to read his mind.

“Well, given the chance, think you'd still be up for it?”

“What do you have in mind?”

Shrugging, Dean said simply, “Getting married.”

God, the huge smile that bloomed on Cas' face said everything, but he murmured anyway, “I would certainly be up for it.”

He didn't even wait for Dean to respond before bringing their lips together for a chaste kiss. Their mouths slotted together perfectly, already familiar with each other. And yet, there was something new about it, something Dean didn't recognize – a spark that came with knowing that they won't be leaving each other's side anymore.

The small cough from Sam had them pulling away, and they looked at him in curiosity and annoyance respectively. “Um, Cas said we should get going, so,” he pointed out with an awkward smile.

Dean looked one last time at the home he and Sam had built over the past two years. His chest suddenly constricted at the thought of leaving it, but he knew it was for the better. It was time to let the forest belong to the beasts, and not the outlaws.

With Castiel's hand in his own, they walked away side by side, into the sunlight that waited beyond.


End file.
